


Where my Armour Ends

by OrcaTimes



Category: South Park
Genre: Dark Stuff, Sex Trafficking, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-01-22 23:27:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12493300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrcaTimes/pseuds/OrcaTimes
Summary: Accused of a crime he did not commit, Kyle leaves behind all that he has ever known when he slips out of South Park late one night. Over the next few years, he suffers at the hands of those who live with greed and lust in their hearts. Rating for rape/non-con, sexual trafficking, violence, drug and alcohol abuse.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Right now, as I am writing this, there are more slaves alive today than in any time in human history. There are an estimated 21-46 million people who are being forced into work that they likely receive little or no pay for.  
> The industry of sex trafficking is worth around $150 billion a year, only rivalled by the drug and weapons industries. Every penny made through the violation and degradation of men, women, and children. Homeless people, for whom every day is a struggle, are particularly vulnerable: a study has found that around one fifth of young people who find themselves on the streets are victims of trafficking.  
> 'There are many slaves in the sex trafficking industry. The pimps who are slaves to greed, the johns who are slaves to lust, and those who are physically enslaved.' - Pastor Eddie Buyn

**Chapter One**

_So show me where my armour ends,_

_Show me where my skin begins  
  
_ He could still vaguely remember what it felt like to be a person. He had fond, but ever disintegrating memories of being tucked up in bed by a mother who loved him, the tight embrace of friends who cared for him. He remembered warm, hazy afternoons sitting at his desk in school, eyelids heavy as he fought sleep, and the biting cold of freshly settled snow that crunched under his shoes. He knew these recollections were his own, and yet it felt as though they were someone else's. In a way, he supposed, they were. They belonged to a boy who had been, for the most part, whole, and happy. And loved. Whatever he was now, holding tight to whatever humanity remained to him, he was none of these things. He certainly hadn't been loved for a very long time.   
He existed still, in some form of living hell. Sometimes he wondered if, in the chaotic evil he'd experienced in the past few years, he had died along the way. Perhaps this _was_ hell. Perhaps this was purgatory. Or perhaps, when you are living a life where love and kindness are in short supply, life could simply be so agonisingly awful that it would be preferable not to exist at all. Some days, he would give anything, _anything_ , to cease to be. He would imagine himself dissolving into particles of dust, forever destined to drift lazily, catching hesitant beams of sunlight. Other days, he seemed not to think at all, an empty husk. A collection of cells, and that was all. Unaffected by hands that breached his defences, the tickle of a stranger's breath that scorched his skin.  
  
Sitting on the windowsill in his room, Kyle forced his mind away from the past. He couldn't afford to feel anything at all, let alone nostalgic longing for a life he could never lead. He had, after all, forsaken all that he'd had, or would ever have, when he'd packed a bag on that cold night years ago, and had withdrawn into the darkness. He'd been thirteen at the time. Kyle wasn't sure how old he was now. Time seemed to have slowed, leaving him suspended in the oncoming tide, and his body felt old and broken.

Thirteen was no age to be living on the streets, begging for loose change from passers-by who clutched steaming cups of coffee and fresh pastries as they hurried by, trying not to make eye contact with the child that grovelled at their feet. The hurricane of his highly unusual childhood had taught him a lot about human character, but he learned more sleeping rough than he had in all of his previous years. People, for the most part, were assholes. To them, the homeless weren't human. They told themselves that to open their wallets for the vermin would be irresponsible. Homeless people took drugs, they drank themselves to death on street corners and were buried in unmarked graves. Kyle felt this was grossly unfair. After a few days wandering the streets and nights curled in a doorway somewhere, he understood why a person might be so eager to escape their lives that they use drugs and alcohol as a crutch to survive the unforgiving nights. To him, if you gave money to a homeless person, you entrust them to do what they felt was best with it. If what they felt was best was a bag of smack to chase away the demons, then that was their decision.

Within days of leaving home, almost everything he had brought with him -including his coat, hat, gloves and shoes- had been stolen. Years of fighting with Cartman, defending himself from the sixth graders, and smashing baseball bats into the kneecaps of paedophiles had left him with fairly proficient fighting skills, and he defended himself until the bitter end. When two men had come in the night, twice his size and reckless after a solid few hours of drinking, he was defenceless as they picked him clean and dumped all his things in the canal. They only thing Kyle had been able to save, clutched in his fist, was his most treasured possession: two crumpled photographs. His mom, dad, and Ike in one, he and his friends in the other. For the next few nights, he would lie shivering under flattened cardboard boxes. They did a very poor job of protecting him from the cruel wind and rain that made him feel as though his very skin was soaked through. He would clutch his photos, thinking of when they had been taken almost a year ago. The four boys and their parents had all taken a beach vacation; a glorious few days of warm sand and the vast, endless ocean stretching out before them. The boys, still glistening with droplets of salt water soaking their straggled hair, grinned toothy smiles at the camera, arms draped around each other.   
On those cold, isolated nights, those photos served as his candle, his tiny flicker of light to ward off thoughts of slitting his wrists with a rusty can, or jumping headlong into the canal.   
  
Looking back, he felt a warped sense of pride for lasting so long with at least the vestiges of his dignity left intact. All things, however, must pass, and when he was so desperate for a warm meal and new gloves to keep his frost-bitten fingers from turning septic, he had eventually given in. From his very first night on the streets, he had been asked if he offered his 'services'; usually by balding, middle aged men with food stains on their ties and body odour. At first, the idea had made him shiver. He'd flat-out refuse- he would never sink so low! But day by day, his resistance had been ground down. The more his stomach twisted painfully with hunger, the more nights he spent lying awake, wondering if this was the night that the cold might kill him, the more he felt he was already at rock bottom. This was just one step further down the path of destruction. Even so, it had taken every bit of his internal strength to agree this time, to give up the youthful virtue he hadn't known he had at the time, for a hand-job. It had taken almost everything from him, and all he received in return was fifteen bucks and a feeling of self-loathing that would lie heavy as a paperweight in the base of his stomach for the rest of his life.   
Just teetering on the brink of adolescence, he was clumsy and awkward, and he had kept his eyes tightly shut as the man kept making disgusting little grunting noises. He hated the whole experience with _every last fibre_ of his being.   
When it was over, Kyle sat dejectedly in a dingy twenty-four hour cafe, warming his trembling, defiled fingers around a cup of coffee. The brew was stale, and the eggs and toast he had ordered hadn't been any more appealing, but he was so relieved not to be starving for a while that he wolfed it down without complaint. His green eyes swivelled unendingly in their sockets as he looked first at the peeling wallpaper, the scuff marks on the tiled floor, the bored waitress behind the counter chewing gum. He looked for all the things he might not have noticed because not a single part of him wanted to think of what he had just done. He felt utterly ashamed with himself. He could still smell the musty scent of the man he had just pleasured on his fingertips, a radiating symbol of his newfound status as a common street whore. Someone who sells their body to those who have sold their morals. Even if a miracle happened and he was welcomed back to South Park with open arms, he was certain that they would see the imprint of the man on his skin.   
  
It didn't take that long for handjobs to develop into blowjobs. Kyle had always been fairly proud. He had crises of faith -like every other person on the planet- but until that point his self-esteem had been quite high. Although still young, Kyle knew that he was someone of worth. Someone his parents could be proud of, a caring big brother, a good friend. He had spent thirteen years building to this peak, but one fifteen dollar night, an act of survival, had taken a wrecking ball to everything he knew about himself. He had yet to succumb the _other_ thing, however, and he only did what he had to when there was absolutely no other option. He would rather hunt through fifty trash cans for a paltry crust of stale bread than have to become that intimate with a strange man.  
Although he hated himself a little more every day, he was, at least, surviving. This state of middle-ground continued for a while, until, as often seemed to happen to him, life got just that little bit worse. He had struck up a friendly rapport with another rough sleeper who often paced the same block as Kyle did. Ralph was the first person who had been kind to him in what seemed like an eternity. He couldn't even remember the last time he had spoken to someone who knew his name. It hurt to think about.   
Kyle had been sitting desolately on his cardboard floor, arms wrapped around his aching stomach. By now, he had gotten used to the feeling, and he estimated that he could last at least another night without being too weak with the hunger. Ralph had stumped over to him, his characteristic limp particularly bad that day.

“Here you go son.” He sat down next to Kyle with a soft 'oof', and offered him a packet of biscuits. He took one without hesitation, mumbling a quiet thanks as he jammed one into his mouth. Ralph watched him as he quickly chewed and swallowed before he spoke again. “Want a nip?” As always, a hip flask appeared seemingly from nowhere. Kyle took it, and swigged the burning liquor. He didn't often drink, and when he did it was only a couple of gulps, but he quite liked the feeling of warmth spreading from his chest; and the buzz it gave him was the closest he could get to happiness. The drink still made him cough a little, but Ralph never laughed at him.

“Thanks, dude.” He rasped, trying to summon a smile for the old guy.

“Don't mention it, kid. Actually, I came here to talk to you 'bout something. Found a place where we can light a fire, get warm for the night. Got us some cider, too. Figured we could heat it up over the flames, fill our bellies and have a good drink.” When he was older, there were several moments in Kyle's life that he could pinpoint as 'where it all started'. The real suffering. The very first handjob had been one, and this was another. Kyle had taken Ralph up on his offer, and allowed him to ply him with hot cups of cider until his head was swimming. He loved how uninhibited it made him feel, but every so often he would have a fleeting moment of doubt. A tiny corner in his mind where the Old Kyle now resided told him that something was wrong, that he was being _so fucking stupid_ , but he let those moments be submerged under the toxic cloud of alcohol that was quickly enveloping him.   
Whereas the night before had been almost surreal, the morning after certainly was not. Reality smashed his ass back down to earth with pain in a place other than his head, and a nauseous feeling that he wasn't entirely sure was due to alcohol poisoning. He was lying in a sleeping bag, his eyes squinting at the painful sunlight. Ralph was next to him. They were both naked. Kyle made a noise like a frightened animal, lurched to his feet and stared, completely in shock, at the man who lay snoring before him. He hurriedly groped for his clothes, stained by dirt and smelling of cider. Hardly stopping to redress himself, he staggered away, leaving his virginity behind in a small stain of blood on Ralph's sleeping bag.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Chapter Two**

_I've got no time for victims and I don't think it was all that bad,_

_And if you can't run to save yourself,_

_Well then you deserve to be had_

* * *

He charged eighty bucks. He had done the math in his head, and come up with the conclusion that it was better this way. Just one fuck and he could afford to stay at a homeless shelter for almost a fortnight. He got a bed to sleep in, and one warm meal a day. Compared to what life had been like for him in the past few months, Kyle felt this to be the lap of luxury. He had told the shelter he was sixteen and legally emancipated in the hopes that they wouldn't investigate, and they didn't. It was clear they knew he was lying, but with their resources stretched to the limit and few volunteers with any real training, they assumed him to be a difficult teenager rather than the vulnerable one he had become. They asked no more questions, and Kyle continued to sleep in his cot bed, eat his one meal, and sleep with a stranger every eleven to thirteen days. Occasionally, he would even treat himself to an extra meal, usually at another open-all-hours cafe.

He had experienced yet another pivotal moment of his life after he had just finished his pancakes one morning on an unusually warm day. Kyle, who had also indulged himself with a notepad and pencils from a tacky dollar shop, was just thinking about heading down to the park and practising his drawing under the shade of a tree when a girl plopped herself down in the chair opposite. She only looked a few years older than he was, and although she had a pretty face, she had that slightly haggard look of a person who hasn't slept properly in years. Although her makeup hid them fairly well, her grey eyes were lined with dark circles. Kyle looked at her in surprise, wondering for a moment if she'd thought him to be someone else, until he remembered that he too had a distinctive look- someone who looked like shit because they felt like shit. The girl was smiling brightly over her apparent exhaustion.

"Well ain't you a pretty lil' thing." This made him recoil, sitting back in his chair and trying to increase the distance between them.

"Sorry?" She tapped her manicured fingernails on the table as she looked around for one of the waiters, all the while resolutely ignoring him. Finally catching someone's eye, she beckoned him over and ordered a skinny latte. The server, apparently unused to such an exotic request, raised an eyebrow, but sloped off to give it a try anyway. She leaned across the table to ruffle Kyle hair. The contact was so sudden and unexpected that it made him flinch.

"You got the  _cutest_ hair. Not too many redheads around. Bet johns love that, huh?" He felt cheeks flush as bright as his curly locks, his gaze leaving hers and remaining stubbornly fixed on the table.

"Don't know what you're talking about." He muttered, scowling a little. Her smile didn't waver.

"Sure, Blaze. You know, my boss has been watching you for a while now."

"Your boss?" She nodded fervently, as though he should already know this information.

"Everyone calls him Scorpion." Kyle would have laughed at the stupid name in a different circumstance, but now he just stared.

"Why?" She shrugged, turning to thank the waiter who had triumphantly placed a foamy coffee in front of her.

"Thanks sweetie." Her gaze met his again. "Because he's got a powerful sting I guess. And he's been workin' this side for so long that you'd be crazy to get on his bad side." Although her tone was upbeat, there was something in the girl's words that sounded like a warning. An alarm call.

"What's that got to do with me?" She rolled her eyes as though he was being exceptionally dumb.

"Well, Scorpion asked me to track you down to offer you a job." He looked up sharply, hardly believing what he'd just heard. Was this strange girl  _really_ offering him work?

"A job?" She sighed heavily, taking a sip of her drink.

"Fuck, it's a good thing you're cute. Yes, a job. He took me in too, y'know. I've been on the streets for years- couldn't stand another day in the system. Thought for a long time that I could get by on my own, but people  _need_ people. We're stronger and better together; think I'd be dead in a ditch somewhere if Scorpion hadn't taken me on. I don't have to beg for food no more, I can sleep in my own bed instead of in some shitty shelter, and I get new clothes. You can have that too, and that's just where it starts. You just gotta work for your pay."

"I can't work," Kyle admitted. "I'm thirteen." The girl laughed, and he noticed that one of her teeth was chipped.

"Blaze, honey, no one gives a shit whether you thirteen or thirty. Age ain't a problem for what you'll be doing."

"And what is that?" He asked. He thought he already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear what the girl would say; if she'd be honest with him. Her grey eyes were twinkling almost mischievously as she looked him up and down.

"Nothing you ain't been doin' already, by the looks of you." Her words stung.

"Only when I have to." He said quietly. "I don't like it."

"What? Course you don't like it. Nobody  _likes_  it. But I'm telling you kid, you're ten times better off doing it for Scorpion then trying to take care of yourself out here. On your own, people can take what they want for free, and what're you gonna do about it? But if you workin' for somebody else, they can protect you. Keep you safe. You're only a little kid. How're you gonna claim what's yours when your john's refusing to pay up and you still on your knees with your pants around your ankles?" Kyle felt the heat rising in his cheeks as he once again blushed crimson. The girl laughed, but it didn't seem like she was being cruel. "Oh, now you really blazing. Scorpion is gonna  _love_  you, honey." A moment of silence descended while the girl searched her pockets, and withdrew a carton of cigarettes. She offered him the packet, and after a moment's hesitation, he took one. "You got a light, Blaze?" He shook his head. "Damn. Well, sure I've got one in here somewhere."

"Why do you keep calling me Blaze?" He asked.

"We don't keep our names when we start workin'. Hell, not sure if I can remember what my real name is anymore." She laughed again, but Kyle was beginning to notice a certain panic to her. It was too high-pitched to be entirely sincere, as though she had so much worried bottled up inside that it was starting to seep from her pores.

"So what's the name that you use now?"

"They call me Storm. They might give you another name; but ask me, Blaze suits you just fine." Kyle shook his head, his curls bouncing as he did so. She was talking as though he'd already agreed to it. If he said yes, he wasn't just sleeping with strangers to get by. He'd be doing it for work, for another person's profit.

"What if I say no? What if I don't want this job?" A look of confusion crossed Storm's face. It seemed she hadn't expected this question.

"Then Scorpion will send some of the guys after you. They'll smash your pretty lil' face in, and if you survive, you'll prob'ly end up workin' for him anyways." Kyle was shocked by this. He felt all the colour drain from his cheeks. Storm, having located her lighter, stood to leave, motioning for him to follow.

"Why the fuck would they do that?"

"Because you're working his patch, stupid." As though it were that obvious. "You're taking customers from his business; Scorpion  _hates_ when people do that. 'Specially when they charge fuck all like you do." Her eyes lingered on the ghost of a bruise on his cheek.

"I tried asking for more," Kyle mumbled. His fingers rose automatically, brushing the mark lightly. "The fucker punched me." Storm shrugged.

"Figured." She lit her cigarette, passed the lighter to Kyle, and took a deep pull. He copied her, trying not to choke as the burning sensation hit the back of his throat. The effort made his eyes water. They stood in silence for a minute. The nicotine was starting to make Kyle a little dizzy, but as with the alcohol, he found he enjoyed this too. He closed his eyes, leaning on the wall behind him as he tried to sort this mess out in his head.

"So my only options are to agree to work for your boss, or get my ass handed to me?" She smiled again, but this time he caught a glimpse of sadness in her eyes.

"Well, I wouldn't've put it like that, but," She paused, stamping out the cigarette with the toes of her high-heeled shoes. "I guess that's the sum of it."

"Guess we should go see your boss then."

* * *

He wasn't Kyle any more. If he was honest with himself, he hadn't been from the moment he'd first dropped his underwear for a stranger. Old Kyle still lived somewhere in the recesses of his mind, but he wasn't speaking for the rest of him much now. The majority ruled, and he had become Blaze. Everyone called him that for his bright hair and the fiery temper that had sometimes emerged when he'd felt particularly vulnerable. They'd beaten that out of him, daily, until he was as submissive as a lamb, and just as worth as much in value. A body for fucking- that's what they called him. Every day, until he believed it to be true.

In the years to come, Kyle would look back and despair at his staggering naivety. He wasn't sure what he'd expected this life to be like, but it hadn't been this. He hadn't envisioned being locked in a bare cell for what felt like an eternity, his only visitors being the muscled men that came almost every day to beat him into submission. The rest of the time, he would lie there, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and a mosaic of bruises decorating his porcelain skin, trying not to think. He wanted his mom. He wanted his friends. He wanted to play catch with his little brother, to go fishing at Stark's Pond, to sleep in a bed that smelled clean and fresh in the house he'd lived in his entire life. Instead, he only had his dissociative mind and, when he could be sure he wasn't imagining them, a family of tiny mice that he could hear scuttling around his pitch-black cell. His father had once told him that being afraid of the dark was irrational, that darkness is nothing more than the absence of light. Kyle had since come to the conclusion that his father had been wrong. The darkness, he realised, was much more than the absence of light: it was a creeping cloak that left him devoid of some senses and heightened others, concealing the dangers in its clutches.  
In the end the almost total isolation, coupled with the frequent beatings, broke him. He thought he would certainly die from the combined ache of loneliness and the physical pain that racked his body until he could no longer make a sound. The men who came to bring this pain must have sensed it.  
One day, instead of the usual kick to the head that Kyle had become accustomed to, they pulled him to his feet and told him to walk. His legs, however, didn't appear to have caught the memo, and they bowed uselessly under his weight. The muscled men ended up having to drag him from the room. The harsh light made him screw his swollen eyes shut as he was carried along the corridor once more. This time, instead of taking him to Scorpion as they had on his first day, they carried on walking. Kyle was glad. Scorpion, who was tall and thin, was a terrifying man. He had told the boy straight that he could expect death if he ever disobeyed his orders, tried to run, or attempted to tell the cops what was happening. He hadn't survived so much to end up dead in a ditch somewhere, so he had nodded dumbly as two of the ever-present bodyguards took him away to his cell. Although the thought of death scared him, he had resisted the way he had been treated for a while. He'd brought his hands up in a defensive arc when they'd tried to hit his face, sworn at them, kicked out. That phase hadn't lasted long after one of them had stamped on his chest, the boot coming down so hard that he'd felt an odd popping sensation as one of his ribs cracked.  
The men took Kyle to a different place this time, and deposited him in a heap on the carpeted floor as though he were a sack of potatoes. If he'd been able to open his eyes without the risk of being blinded, he'd have seen that he was surrounded by girls; a dozen or so. Most of them were older, although a few looked young enough to be his age. He couldn't see them, but he could hear their hushed whispers, and the sound of the door closing as the men left. His tense shoulders deflated a little in relief, but shot back up again when a hand lightly touched his arm.

"Sweetheart?" He shrank away, but something told him that he needn't have. The voice had been gentle and softly-spoken, with a trace of an accent that his confused brain couldn't place. "Oh, Jesus have mercy." He turned his head towards the words, finally daring to open his eyes a fraction. The light in this room, he was relieved to find, was dim with an orange glow not dissimilar to a sunset. As his vision focused, he blinked slowly at the girl who had spoken. The first thing he noticed was her hair, a very similar shade of red to his, brushing gently against her shoulders in docile waves. Her eyes, hazel flecked with tiny shards of gold, were warm, kind, and filled with pity. Kyle hadn't seen his reflection in some time, but he couldn't imagine he was looking too good.

"Lexa, run and fetch me a bowl of warm water and some of my cotton pads- there's a good girl. And would somebody bring this poor lad something to drink?" Her accent was Irish, he realised. She was very pretty, and he stared somewhat bewilderedly as she cupped his chin with gentle fingers and tilted his head first one way and then the other. "Oh, you poor thing. Are you in pain?" It was an inane question; she could surely see the answer etched in the cuts and bruises.

"Why are you being nice to me?" He croaked, his throat parched. He didn't deserve kindness. He was nothing but a body for fucking, the men had told him so. Besides, he was very quickly learning not to trust those who showed him even the most basic acts of human decency. Everybody wanted something from him. He'd had a hesitant trust for Ralph, and that had been a mistake of catastrophic proportions. He'd blindly trusted Storm's promises, and she too had betrayed him. He looked for the grey-eyed girl now, the person who'd told him he would be safe here, and found her sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, expressionless as she watched him. She looked away the moment his eyes connected with her own, a slight flush staining her cheeks. Kyle wanted to ask why she'd done this to him, but the Irish girl was talking again, and it took every bit of his concentration to listen.

"Me mam always told me that no man ever became poor by giving. She used to be a nurse, you see." She said grandly, nodding her thanks to a girl who was holding a bowl out to her in one hand and a glass of water in the other. "'Sides, us redheads need to stick together. And lord knows, you look like you could use a bit of love. How old are you, anyway? What's your name?"

"Blaze," He answered automatically, lisping slightly through his swollen lips. "I'm thirteen, at least- I think I am." It felt as though years had passed in his cell, but the ever-logical part of him knew it can't have been more than a few weeks. So much had happened since he'd left home that he couldn't even remember how far away his birthday had been at the time. The girl nodded knowingly.

"Well I'm Scarlett. Original, I know, but that's just the name that stuck." She leaned in close on the pretence of helping him to swallow a few drops of water. "That's it, easy now." When their faces were so close that they almost touched, her voice dropped to a whisper. "Me real name's Dana."

"Kyle," He murmured back. "Mine's Kyle."

"Don't you ever forget the name your mam gave you, Kyle." For a moment, they just looked at each other, before she withdrew, raising her tone to a normal level. He gave a minute nod that evolved into a flinch when Dana carefully dabbed a damp cotton pad across his face, sponging off the dried blood. Some of the other girls watched for a few minutes, but by the time she had finished they were mostly in conversation with each other again. Some of them sat with a pile of playing cards between them, others sat at the barred window and chain-smoked Marlboro Lights. Dana chatted softly to him all the while she worked, and didn't seem to mind his sparse replies. Kyle felt completely overwhelmed. He had been shown terrible, unrelenting cruelty, and now such loving care that he wasn't even sure if this was real. Maybe Dana was a figment of his imagination, and he was still curled in a ball in his cell. He could be going insane. The thought was less disturbing than it should have been.

"What happens next?" He eventually asked when there was a break Dana's chatter. She was trimming his hair now, blowing softly on his face every so often to keep the wisps from tickling. It took a moment for her to reply.

"They don't usually send you new ones out straight away. You'll draw far too much attention to yourself, looking the way you do. The coppers will be on your arse soon as look at you. But in a few days, you'll get your corner- that's the block you'll be working. We're out basically the whole night, but there's a small restaurant at the back of the gentleman's club and they'll give you a meal when you get back- but go through the back door, mind. Then you can spend the day sleeping, or you can come in here. When you prove you can be trusted, you can go out in the daytime." She paused to check that the length of his hair was even. "You drink? Do drugs?" He shrugged, feeling ashamed. He shrugged, feeling a little ashamed.

"Drink, sometimes. Not often."

"There's no shame in it. Some of the johns 'round here can be rough- but if one of them tries to offer you pills or drink,  _don't_ take it, you listening to me? I once knew a girl do a line of what she thought was coke. Haven't a clue what it was cut with but don't spose it matters; she didn't last long when it hit her bloodstream whatever it was." Dana shuddered. "Awful way to go if you ask me. Anyway, it's alright to take it from the girls here, or the lads- yes, you're not the only one." She added when she saw the quizzical look on his face. " _Or_ the heavies. Just not the customers."

"Heavies?" Almost all of what she was saying sounded like a foreign language.

"Oh, of course, you wouldn't know. I can be a right muppet at times. That's what we call the bodyguards, the hired muscle, understand? The heavies." Kyle, still struggling to take it all in, just stared at her. Donna pocketed her scissors, standing back as if appraising him. "Once you heal over, I reckon you'll be a right fine thing. Bet you're popular with the ladies back where you come from." Kyle blushed. The truth was, he'd never really spared that much thought for the opposite gender. To make matters more complicated, and unbeknownst to Kyle, his mind was already creating ingrained associations between love and sex. He was starting to form a negative idea of what it is to love a person. For his previous thirteen years, his understanding had been slowly built based on the relationships of those around him, and the usual channel of playground romances that all began when person A's friend would talk to person B's friend to let them know that person A likes person B. With those influences entirely removed from his daily existence, and at an already crucial stage for romantic development, his brain was already replacing his definition with love with that of lust. His new experiences were of hands that hurt and a space within himself that was regularly invaded by people who had made a wreckage of him.  
Dana must have noticed that he looked uncomfortable, for she said no more about it.

* * *

The months slipped by, marked by the reluctant warmth that broke through the frost and the increasing daylight hours. Kyle had quickly learned what it took to survive, and in truth, things could have been worse. When he was working, he'd developed an uncontrollable ability to professionally zone out. It was as though his body had simply had enough and consequentially shut itself down. Nothing around him seemed real, like his body and his soul temporarily split. His body would remain, for fucking, and his soul would travel. Although he could never remember those brief periods of detachment, he lived to imagine that he'd gone to visit everyone in South Park. He'd see his mother, serving chicken soup to his father and brother. They would all be sitting around the table talking about their days, smiling and laughing. Everything was better. Nobody would spit at them in the street because of what they thought Kyle had done. Then he would swoop through the night sky, illuminated by the stars, to check up on Stan. Sometimes he'd be playing video games with Kenny and, less frequently, Cartman. Sometimes he'd be sat on the couch watching Terrance and Phillip, clutching his sides with laughter.  
On the nights that he seemed firmly rooted to reality, he would occasionally take half a hit of something. He didn't often have to resort to it, but on the nights that he felt so used that he was sure he be shattered into a million pieces before long, a little ket could  _just_ keep him afloat. Old Kyle, who was, by now, barely holding on by his fingertips, was pissed at himself the moment he came down from the high. But even he knew that it wasn't really the drugs that were the problem. The life that they took him away from was the real demon here.  
As hard as the nights were, the days were better. For the first time in months, Kyle had a friend in Dana. In fact, the girl was more of a big sister to him. He wasn't sure how she managed to stay so grounded in such a relentlessly abhorrent existence, but he truly believed that he would have succumbed to the claws of addiction full-time if not for her. She was seventeen, and truly looked after him with patient hands of guidance. He had noticed that she was kind to everyone, but Kyle had quickly become someone she doted on. He wasn't sure why, but he was grateful for it. Sometimes he made her laugh. Sometimes she made  _him_ laugh, which was intrinsically invaluable in itself. She struck him as one of those people that radiated altruism, and everybody seemed to respect that. She certainly had the heavies wrapped around her little finger, and even Scorpion turned a blind eye when she left her corner five minutes early to meet Kyle at his. If he was still with a customer, she would wait until he showed up. She would then loop her arm through his, and they would pretend to be real brother and sister. It had been Dana who had taught him to use his imagination in the daytime when he needed to forget, encouraging him to use his spare time to draw in the little sketchpad she'd brought him. He'd spent hours drawing her a picture in thanks once he was reasonably skilled. It was a field of flowers, with two tiny red-headed figures in the background. She'd nearly cried when he presented it to her, but had swallowed back the tears. You couldn't cry, she'd told him. Use your imagination to escape, and never cry.

"I don't think a single person on this planet could blame you for needing something to get you through the nights," She had once told him on one of their walks back to base. "But you must try to leave that all behind once the sun comes up."

"I promise." Kyle had vowed, his gaze fixed on hers. She had shaken her head, turning and taking hold of his shoulders, her grasp a gentle pressure.

"No, Kyle. You don't have to promise. You just have to  _try_." They both looked around automatically- they weren't supposed to use their real names. They were supposed to forget who they were, and he was Blaze. Not Kyle. This time, it hadn't mattered. There was no one around. Her stare returned to his face. "Just try, and that's all I can ask of you. I promised me mam once that I would never let any man touch me before we were married." Her soft laughter had a bitter edge. "And I feel just awful every damn day for breaking that promise. So you never have to promise me anything. Just keep fighting in your way, in a way that doesn't get you a grave without a headstone. I'm sure there's a way out of this." Kyle had just nodded. He found himself incapable of speech.


	3. Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

_Sold soon after the appraisal,_

_The hammer struck the auction table_

_Louder than anything I've ever heard_

* * *

He'd had a steady night, but it hadn't been a bad one. Not being asked to perform any blowjobs was a blessing. It might have sounded strange to anyone else; but when he had to give head he had to at least  _appear_ engaged. When the customer just wanted to fuck it meant he could go into his own little world, which suited him better. Kyle had spent most of the night away in his own faraway land, but he had now come back to earth, and stood waiting for Dana. He exhaled a breath of smoke, tapped his cigarette, watched as the ash was taken by the wind, and nibbled his lip. It was something he had done in times of worry since he was young, but his lips were now permanently raw where he'd so often bitten them. He was worried because she was late. Dana was never late. He tried to imagine her clip-clipping her way down the sidewalk, feet rolling a little in her high heels, out of breath from walking so fast with her own ciggie trapped between two fingers. He wondered if he could make her appear if he concentrated his whole mind on it. He tried, but she was still nowhere to be seen. Kyle decided he would look for her. She was probably with a john still, and it would be nice if this time he was waiting on her corner to walk her back. She always did the same for him, after all.

He didn't bump into her halfway or find her at her own corner. Instead, he found something that gave him that horrible feeling that his heart had just dropped several feet. A constant stream of blood led him down a side street, through an alleyway, right up to the dead end that was blocked by wire fencing. There, propped against an industrial sized garbage tip, sat Dana. Deep down, he knew she was dead the moment he saw her, but he called her name anyway, over and over again. She was sitting in a pool of blood. Her clothes were so saturated in it made it impossible to see where she'd been hurt. Kyle moved closer, still repeating her name. He tried Dana, and then Scarlett. The two halves of the whole person. Her hazel eyes stared glassily, unseeing. Her radiant hair seemed to catch the early rays of sun, setting her pale skin alight. Crouching down beside her, still echoing  _Dana, Dana, Dana_ , he reached for her hand. She was stone cold, and he could pretend no longer. She was dead. He couldn't tear his eyes away. His calls had faded now, but his hammering heart sent blood rushing through his eardrums, the silent throbs all he could hear. Kyle used his other hand to close her eyes. If it weren't for the blood, she could be sleeping. He then reached into her pocket for the drawing he had known would be there. Two tiny figures standing in a field of flowers. He kissed her on the forehead, completely unaware of the hot tears that streamed down his cheeks, unaffected by anything at all but this moment. He folded up the piece of paper and slipped it into his pocket with his precious photos. He walked a few blocks south towards the nearest payphone, pulling a cigarette from the carton in his jeans as he did so. Lighting up, he dialed the numbers and gave the street address.

"I found a girl dead," He told the operator, ignoring the questions that came after. "Her name was Dana." Somehow, it had seemed very important that they know her name. Hanging up, he raised the hood of his jacket, and walked on.

* * *

Weeks later, Kyle sat leaning against the window in the communal room, drawing. He was starting to get good. He'd just been putting the finishing touches on his latest project- the silhouette of two kids playing their guitars together. He tried to convince himself that it would look cool, and he'd been right, but anyone who'd known him from before would know that it was a portrait of himself and Stan. To personalise it would have been to open up the wound that contained the good life, and that had become too painful. Kyle angled his head, holding up the sheet of paper. It had turned out pretty well.

"Blaze?" He nearly dropped his things, looking up sharply at the two men that had just entered. Chris and Don, those were their names. They got to keep their names, because their bodies weren't just used for fucking. He had a memory, back from when he'd been in his cell, of Don kicking him in the stomach until he curled with the pain. Kyle hoped he wasn't being taken back there. He'd been put back in for a few days after he'd found Dana dead, because he'd been stupid enough to call the police instead of letting someone else find her. He took the beatings better this time around because nothing anybody could do to him would make him feel worse than he already did. He would have taken it for a decade, and if given the chance, would still have phoned the cops. If he hadn't her body might not have been discovered for days. There was no longer much he could say with absolute certainty, but he knew that, without a doubt, she deserved better than that.

"Hello? Anyone in there?" Kyle shook himself. He had been zoning in and out more since Dana had died. He reasoned that it was probably the boredom, and tried to stay busy with drawing. He wanted to honour her memory, and doing that meant following every piece of advice she had given him.

"Sorry." He muttered, surprised to find that Chris and Don were directly in front of him now.

"Boss wants you. C'mon fag, hurry it up." Kyle did as he was told. Chris gave him a small, apologetic smile. He couldn't return the gesture; his cheek muscles acted of their own accord, but he hoped the man would see it in his eyes. Some of the heavies were genuinely good guys, only working for Scorpion because they had no other options and mouths to feed, or because they had been blackmailed. Chris was one of them. He often passed Kyle the odd cigarette, or would stop to admire one of his drawings. He placed a reassuring hand on Kyle's shoulder now as they both followed Don down the corridor. Looking down at his hands, smudged with pencil marks, he realised that he was trembling. He was scared.  
When they entered Scorpion's office, the man himself was sitting behind his desk. He rose, watching Kyle for a long moment. He didn't meet the boss' gaze, afraid of what he might say. Out of the corner of one eye, he noticed Chris and Don leaving the room, leaving the two alone.

"I am not a good man." Scorpion always spoke quietly, through thin lips. His brows seemed constantly knitted together, a hard expression in the eyes between. Kyle looked up then. It seemed an odd thing for the man to say. When he spoke, his voice wobbled.

"Sorry, sir?"

"You heard what I said. I am not a good man. I know this, but I have neither the time nor inclination to care. There are good people in the world, and there are bad people. I simply fall into the latter category. Do you consider yourself a good person, boy?" He had noticed before that the boss never called one of his workers by their name. It was always 'boy', or 'girl'. It had a deeply depersonalising effect. Kyle shook his head slowly, eyes wide as the man before him chuckled. Even that sounded harsh and cold. "And why is that?"

"Because I'm nothing, sir. I'm a body for fucking."

"Ah. Is that what the men told you? We both know it isn't true. Just look at your friend Dana- she wasn't nothing, was she?" Kyle flinched when he spoke her name. He hadn't thought that anyone knew it, except himself and the emergency operator.

"N-no, sir. She wasn't nothing." He had no idea what Scorpion wanted him to say, but it had felt like the right answer. The tall man turned away, staring out of the window, hands clasped behind his back. Kyle stood rigidly still, not daring to move even without the man's gaze upon him.

"Tell me; do you know who Mary Oliver is?" Kyle scrunched his face up in concentration. A fleeting memory surfaced of his desk at school, of Mr. Garrison, of an English class.

"A poet?" He answered hesitantly. Scorpion nodded.

"Very good." He turned back to face him. "'Someone I once loved gave me a box of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.' One of my favourite quotes of hers. I am not a good man, boy. But I am not without feeling. Dana was, truly, a good person. I am sorry that she died. And I am sorry that you are one of the few people to understand what a great loss it is." Kyle was shocked; unable to speak. This hadn't been at all what he'd expected to hear. He nodded stupidly, unsure of whether he was expected to reply.

"Do you know how she died, sir? I couldn't tell, I-" His voice trailed away as a lump ballooned in his throat and tears misted his eyes. ' _Don't cry,_ ' he told himself. ' _Don't you dare cry_ '.

"My contacts inside the crime lab tell me she was stabbed some thirteen times." The choked sob tumbled from Kyle before he could stop himself. Scorpion did not react. "I am afraid that they are not looking into her murder. After all, all the police know of her is her name, and that she worked as a prostitute." Kyle shifted awkwardly, staring doggedly at the floor.

"I'm sorry."

"Hm. Perhaps you shouldn't be sorry. But a word of advice; do not act a fool again. Next time, you might not be so lucky. I might be a bad person, but there are  _many_ worse than me. Which brings me to why I've asked you here today."

"Yes, sir?" Maybe Kyle wasn't in trouble after all.

"You are being moved. At daybreak tomorrow, there will be a van waiting to take you elsewhere. It will be a long journey, so you may spend tonight doing as you please. You do not have to work this evening. But be warned; my generosity is now stretched to the limit. If you do not return here within," Scorpion cast a glance at his watch. "Twelve hours, you will wish you had suffered the same fate as your friend. Understood?" Kyle's thoughts were racing. If he wasn't so utterly fearful of the man, he would have started asking questions. Where were they taking him, and why? Was this because of Dana? But then, why had Scorpion told him he shouldn't be sorry?

"I- yes, sir." Was all he said.

* * *

That night, when everyone else had gone to work, Kyle walked aimlessly through the streets. He'd brought his sketchbook with him, but it was too dark to see now, and his thoughts were in turmoil. They were planning to move him, and he didn't even know where. This could be the perfect chance to escape, or it could be the death of him. In his heart of hearts, he knew that he had become far too weak-willed to run. Or maybe he was just too weak in general, he couldn't be sure anymore. And where would he run to? It didn't matter, all roads would likely take him to the same ending. People like him, like Storm, like Dana, they weren't meant to survive. They were crucified at the mercy of their pimps, their johns, their addictions, their demons. The pretty, red-headed girl hadn't been the first to die in the months that Kyle had been working for Scorpion- one girl had been beaten to death by a heavy when she'd tried to run, and a boy no older than himself had been found swinging in the communal room by the noose that cradled his neck. Kyle hadn't mourned them. He'd felt an odd, disjointed sort of sorrow, but hadn't known either personally. To him, they were just nameless faces with broken shells for bodies. He mourned Dana every day, but chose to keep those feelings at arm's length. He couldn't keep away the image of her from ruminating in the back of his mind, smiling softly as she sat somewhere between Old Kyle and Blaze. Somehow, it felt as though she was standing in defense of the former's memory. Old Kyle, buoyed by the sudden support, had strengthened his tenuous hold, and he would often find himself thinking of things he mustn't think about. Blaze would have to remind himself that he was a body for fucking and nothing more, or he would get a smart mouth and very likely a broken nose at the end of it.  
On that night, as he paced the streets, his old self felt bolder than he had in months. He'd passed the mailbox several times before a thought struck him. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the box with his head tilted to one side. He wouldn't dare. He couldn't. He mustn't. Could he?  
Before he could stop himself, he was a boy possessed. He increased his speed, making his way through the winding streets until he found a convenience store that was still open. He turned his pockets inside out, pulling every penny from their depths, and scraped together enough for an envelope and a single stamp. He borrowed a pen from the shopkeeper, who was watching him suspiciously, scribbled the address that he knew off by heart, and stuffed one of his drawings inside.  
Minutes later, he stood before the mailbox once again, hand holding the letter out, fingers trembling. Kyle made himself let go, and watched as the envelope dropped into the darkness. The moment he closed the lid, he felt sick with nerves, and stared around in case there had been anyone watching. He couldn't believe he'd just done that. Only hours before, Scorpion had warned him not to act the fool, and yet here he was sending mail to someone that no longer even wanted Kyle in his life. But Dana had told him to survive how he had to, so long as it didn't get him killed. He could only try.

* * *

Being in the back of the van reminded Kyle of his cell. It was cold and dark, but the steady rumble of the engine meant he didn't feel quite so alone. Sometimes he could hear the two men talking in the front cab, or the tinny sound of rock music when they had the radio on. Their names were Trevor and Farad, and they hadn't treated him too badly. The first night, when they'd let him out to piss under the cover of darkness, Trevor had been a bit leery. He'd pinned Kyle to the cold metal wall of the van and told him they expected something in return for the food they were giving him. Kyle had just stared back, trying to ignore his thumping heart, but Farad had pulled Trevor away.

"We were ordered not to hurt him unless he tried to run," He said, gesturing to the boy between them. "And I can tell he is not so stupid. Good money is being paid, and we won't see a nickel of it if we deliver him looking like shit." Trevor had just grunted, but whatever Farad had meant must have struck a chord: Kyle wasn't touched again, and Farad even gave him a small bottle of forty-proof whiskey before shutting him back in the van. He drank most of it at once, and settled down to let the poison take him somewhere else. It was fine to drink at night, Dana had said. It was fine.  
His dreams were confusing. At first, he was naked, body battered and bruised, with a faceless man turning him onto his stomach, lifting his hips with fingers that left burn marks wherever they touched. Then the man became someone else, a little shorter, with a blue coat and hat. Stan was standing there, and so was Kenny, Cartman, his family, the other kids from his class, until everyone he'd left behind in South Park was standing before him. They jeered, shouted unkind words that he didn't understand, spat at him. Kyle looked down and realised he was still naked, and that someone had branded words on his chest. 'Paedo', one read. Another called him a liar, a fag, a nonce. He tried back that he'd never touched that little girl, that he would never hurt a child. But the figures were changing again, growing taller and taller until they were indistinguishable from one another, and Kyle was so small that they could crush him if one of them stepped on him.  
He woke drenched in a cold sweat, heart pounding, shaking like a leaf. The van was still moving. He wasn't in South Park. He was fine. Delving into his pockets, he pulled out his most treasured possessions, staring at them unblinkingly. His photographs, Dana's drawing.

"I miss you." He mumbled, feeling every bit of the misery that he usually tried to suppress.

* * *

When the van finally rolled to a halt, the sky was an onyx black. Farad opened the doors of the truck, offering Kyle a hand getting out. His legs felt weak and achy, as they had done when he'd been let out of his cell. Two more men were waiting a few feet away; the only thing giving their presence away were the tiny embers of light from their cigarettes. One of the strangers stepped forward, handing Trevor a suitcase, while the other took Kyle firmly by the arm. Now the exchange was done, he didn't want to go. This was something new, and he didn't like it. Old Kyle was telling him to kick the fucker in the nuts and run, but Blaze had noticed that both the strangers had guns at their hips. The grip around his arm was tight, and he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to pull away anyway.

Farad was looking at him with a curious expression- it looked like pity, regret, and sadness. He offered Kyle a friendly smile and told him to take care of himself. Trevor just nodded in his general direction, and the two of them got back in the van. Kyle watched them go mournfully. There was movement behind him, and when he turned back, one of the men dropped a sack over his head. It took him completely by surprise, and he lurched backward on his unsteady feet. Hand reached out to grab him, but they weren't gentle hands. They pulled him roughly along, barely stopping as he stumbled blindly, his breath coming in panicked rasps. The men spoke to one another in a language Kyle didn't know, and every now and then one of them poked something hard into his lower back that he thought might be the barrel of a gun. Tears stung at his eyes, but he refused to let them fall even if they wouldn't be seen. He clasped his drawing and photos in his fist, suddenly fearing that someone would try to take them.

He had been right to be suspicious. After they'd been walking for at least fifteen minutes, he was taken inside a building. Kyle tried to remember the directions they took, but lost track after the eighth or so turn. They came to a halt, and one of the men ordered him to strip. This was a struggle, as he was still blindfolded, but eventually he stood before the strangers in just his underwear.

"Those too." A voice said, pinging the waistband. He was afraid of being hurt, so after a moments pause he obeyed, shivering in the cold, hands balled into fists to conceal the paper crushed within. He'd decided a long time ago that it didn't matter how disheveled his treasures became; it mattered that they were his, to remind him that there had been times in his life that had made him feel happy, and whole, and loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  You guys have no idea how hard it was to kill off Dana. It's amazing how attached you can get to characters that you've only just introduced. I'm srsly you guys.
> 
> Also, I'm now 5 chapters ahead, which is unheard of for me. I'm planning on publishing a new chapter every Tuesday afternoon (GMT) so that I can stay ahead. Thanks for reading, everyone!


	4. Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

_Can't tell if I've been breathing or sleeping_

_Or screaming or waiting for the man to call_

_And maybe all of the above_

_'Cause mostly I've been sprawled on these cathedral steps_

_While spitting out the blood and screaming_

_"Someone save us"_

* * *

The room smelled strongly of cigarettes and sex. His clients never seemed to notice, and after a while, Kyle too had become used to it. He would lie on his bed, waiting for the next man in what seemed like a never-ending procession of them, and let his eyes roam. There were thirty-six floorboards, walnut in colour, some of them bearing dark stains that looked suspiciously like blood. The metal bars that crossed his window were about a foot-long in diameter, and rusting in places. They made funny patterns on his walnut floorboards whenever the sun faced his room, which never seemed to happen enough to warm him. Hanging from a wall above his bed, a clock ticked incessantly. He was convinced that the time on it was wrong, but it served more as a timer than anything else, to let him know when the hour was up.

Apart from when one of his clients was inordinately rough with him, Kyle felt perpetually cold. He was often sick too, coughs and colds and the occasional chest infection that made his lungs feel like they were rattling. He still had to see his customers, his endless procession, no matter how ill he was. He could be dying, and they'd probably still send him men who liked how sickly he looked.  
He often worked up to twenty hours a day, and was only fed once. Bowls of porridge, chunks of stale bread with suspiciously warm slices of cheese, watery soup that tasted like feet. In the morning, the same mousy girl would always bring his food, a bottle of water, and a bowl that he could use to wash himself. Kyle seemed to spend a lot of time washing himself, trying to scrub the sin from his skin, but he never felt any cleaner.  
He got cigarettes too, now that he was behaving, and often the girl who brought his food would press a little bag of something into his cold hands. He was never quite sure what these bags contained, and whenever he tried to ask the girl she would shake her head vehemently, brown eyes like saucers in her thin face. Kyle often wondered if he looked just as skeletal. He'd noticed his protruding ribs and collarbones, but the girl who came looked close to death, and surely Kyle couldn't look  _that_ terrible. So he would take the faceless drugs, sometimes recognising the odd, floating sensation of a tranquilliser, or the euphoric lift of coke. They helped, but he always felt like utter shit when he came down.

The girl hadn't given him anything exotic this morning, just a bowl of cooked pasta and a tiny, bruised apple. He very rarely got fruit, and enjoyed it immensely as the juices ran down his chin. He nibbled as close to the core as he could, and then sat on his windowsill, as he did every day, to smoke his first cigarette. The nicotine was starting to stain his fingers, but he didn't care. His clients would likely start arriving soon, and he wanted to have his first wash before they did so. He couldn't be sure why; over the next dozen or so hours he would be defiled to nauseating extremes, but having a morning wash helped him to feel like he had some sort of routine rather than the endless, mindless fucking.  
Not all of his customers were terrible people. He got the sense that some of them didn't really know what was going on, that Kyle was there of his own free will. He tried to make it seem that way, giving them the shy, fake smile that he had perfected only recently, and making the right sounds in the right places so that they'd be fooled into thinking he was enjoying himself. Some of them even gave him books or new pencils if he asked for them, which he kept concealed in a slit in his mattress. He liked reading as much as he did drawing. He enjoyed the smell of the books, which were a big improvement over sex and stale cigarettes, and the feeling of the paper under his fingertips. Mostly, he just liked to be trapped in another world for a while. It was almost as good as those times when he and Dana had used their imaginations, but Kyle tried not to think about that anymore. Dana was dead, his old friends all hated him, and his family didn't want him. He was better off alone, he'd decided. Himself, his books, his sketchpad, and the procession of clients. That was his life, his lot. He was surviving, that's what he told himself.  
Absently, Kyle traced his fingers over the indentations below his collarbone. He'd been tattooed there, not long after he'd arrived. His name -Blaze, not his old name- and a number. One-nine-nine, that was him. He wasn't sure what it meant; whether it was a code, or a symbol, or just that there were one-hundred-and-ninety-eight girls and boys that came before him, and it didn't really matter. Underneath these were two lines. His two strikes, as it were. This place worked differently to how it had been with Scorpion, but the principal was still the same. Act the fool, and you suffer for it. He'd had two strikes- another one, and he was dead. Buried six-foot deep with no headstone, just like Dana.

His first major foul had taken place within a week of him arriving, when he'd been taken to a club to mingle with prospective clients. It had smelled like spilt spirits and body odour, and the music had made his head pound. He would never forget the moment he'd seen a man with a Lieutenant's badge clipped to his belt, his jacket pulled back due to his arm having been draped around the waist of another boy about Kyle's age. He'd stared aghast at the man; and when he'd seen him looking, he leaned further back in his chair so Kyle would see the gun holstered on his belt. That man had later become one of his regulars, as though to remind him that to grass would be a death sentence. Kyle was just thankful that he never brought his gun.  
That day had been a horribly degrading experience in general. He hadn't realised that he could still feel that level of embarrassment as he was paraded like a show horse for men that were mostly upwards of twice his age. He spent most of the whole ordeal with blazing cheeks, staring at the floor and enduring their touches as they cupped his chin or smacked his ass. When he'd finally been driven back to wherever it was he lived now -he was still blindfolded during the journeys- he had noticed they hadn't locked the door.  _Blaze_ hadn't wanted to go, but Old Kyle had taken the wheel. It were as though that small part of his being hoarded every bit of energy it could find, and burst from him in a sudden personality change. He'd crept from the room, down the corridor, towards the stairs; but the hand came from nowhere, and one of the guards had Kyle's throat between his constricted fingers in a single, heart-stopping moment. When he'd found his door unlocked, he hadn't stopped to think for a moment that it might be a trap, that they purposefully orchestrated an escape attempt because they liked meting out the punishments that followed.  
They'd tattooed him first of all, one line under his number. Then they put him on his knees, fucked him, and repeatedly forced his head into a bucket of water. He'd hated that most of all. Every time one of them grasped a handful of his curls and pushed him under, he was sure that  _this_ one would be the death blow. He'd get to the breakpoint, that moment when his brain would tell him that holding his breath was killing him, that he might as well breathe in because that might not. Then they'd pull him back again, and he'd choke and splutter, eyes stinging and lungs burning. Kyle didn't cry, but he came close to tears of relief when it was over, and the men left him and the bucket alone in the otherwise empty room for two weeks.

The second strike came as a direct result of the first. He'd had rough clients ever since he'd started selling his body, but those who frequented the new place were the worst yet. He'd often have red welts lining his wrists from being tied to the bed, or left with bruises starting to bloom under his skin like ink-stained paper. One of his clients had taken to choking Kyle as he gave him a blowjob, seeming to like the power it gave him. During one of their sessions, he had squeezed a little too long, and Kyle responded with panic at the familiar sensation of not being able to breathe. He'd bitten the man.  
He'd still been on his knees when the customer complained and the guards came for him. He'd begged them not to hurt him, that it had been instinctive, but this only earned him a swift kick to the mouth. They smirked as he spat out two of his teeth, trembling as the blood dribbled down his chin.  
This time, they took him to someone they referred to only as 'Slasher' who seemed to be a head guard of sorts. He'd been intimidating just to look at, with broad shoulders and muscled arms and tattoos covering one side of his face. The punishment had been much swifter this time, but equally brutal. Kyle had been whipped, and taken back to his room with his back a bloody mess. He still had some of the scars, which was perhaps the worst thing of all to come out of the whole ordeal. When clients asked about them, he would tell them that he liked it rough to keep them from becoming suspicious. Most of the men would shrug and carry on with their business, but it brought out a more dominating nature in others.  
Since the second strike, he had settled down considerably. The fact that his transgressions were inked on his body served as a constant reminder, if he had any need of one. Once he'd started behaving, he'd been allowed the cigarettes and pills, and the guards didn't bother him as much. He was still beaten regularly to quell any ideas of rebellion, but the pain could at least distract him for a while.

* * *

The bright sun was beginning to set as Kyle sat smoking on the windowsill, the taste of apple still sweet on his tongue. One of the friendlier guards popped his head around the door to tell him that they weren't opening for another couple of hours yet, and that he could go back to sleep if he wanted to. Kyle just nodded in acknowledgment, still staring out through the bars of his window. There wasn't much to see -just the grey walls of another building along the way- but he appreciated the sunlight. He didn't want to go back to sleep, but he didn't much fancy drawing or reading either. A sudden urge took him, and he crossed to his bed, and felt along the side for the rip. He wanted to look at the faces of his family and friends, as he did every so often. His fingers traced over the faded people smiling at him, silently mouthing their names.  _Mom, dad, Ike, Cartman, Kenny, Stan... Kyle._ He settled back in his spot in the ebbing sun, mind suddenly full of disintegrating memories, of hell and purgatory, cells and vans, blood and bruises, of the loving embrace of friend and the violating force of foe. Tearing his mind away took a lot of effort, and he suddenly felt very tired. Not in an exhausted sense that made his eyelids droop and muscles relax, but in the combined weight of all he had suffered merging into an all-encompassing vortex. He was afraid of death, but also of life. He wanted to die but he  _had_  to live, because Dana couldn't, because it was so blindingly unfair for someone to be so sure that there was something,  _somewhere,_  better, but would never get to see it.  
Kyle slumped back against the wall. Maybe he should go back to bed after all.

* * *

Kenny could burst with happiness. He'd learned a lot of new techniques over the past couple of days, and although he loved the bustling streets of Brooklyn he couldn't wait to get back to South Park to share them with the head chef where he worked. They'd struck up a friendship from Kenny's very first day, back when he washed dishes for eight bucks an hour, and it had been Carl who'd convinced the owner that sending Kenny to the 'Modern Cooking Techniques' course in NYC could be invaluable. It had been an amazing experience, and he'd even met some famous faces in the restaurant business.

"That was awesome!" He bounced up to Clyde, who'd agreed on the roadtrip on two conditions: that Kenny paid for gas, and once the course was over they'd spend the rest of their trip doing things that  _Clyde_  wanted to. He rolled his eyes at his friend, but it was true that nobody could ever fault the blonde for his enthusiasm.

"Whatever. I'm fucking starving, we going for food or what? I wanna get to this place before all the good ones are taken." Kenny fell into step beside his friend, head still full of emulsifying and flavoured foams.

"What's so good about this particular House of Ill Repute, anyway?" He asked absently. Clyde shrugged.

"Nothin' special. But my uncle's a regular, and he gave me a card that'll get us twenty percent off." Kenny snorted.

"What's next, a two-for-one offer? Buy a handjob and get your balls sucked for free?"

"Look, you want a cheap fuck or not?" He pretended to consider this for a moment, blue eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Want." Clyde was rolling his eyes so much that it seemed incredible they hadn't fallen right out of their sockets.

* * *

Both teenagers were in good spirits on the train towards the borders of Brooklyn, the burgers they'd just inhaled having drastically lifted Clyde's mood. The building they had been directed to was fairly large, all grey bricks and barred windows, nestled between a closed-down accountancy firm and what appeared to be an abandoned building.

"Looks cosy," Kenny commented as he surveyed their surroundings. "I feel like I'm gonna get syphilis just stepping inside this place."

"Stay out here if you want." Clyde smirked. They both knew that Kenny couldn't resist sticking his dick somewhere warm.  
The interior wasn't much nicer, but it was clean enough, and they'd both been to worse. They were greeted by a large woman who didn't seem to speak much English, but she understood their meaning well enough.

"Man or lady?" She asked with a thick accent. Clyde wanted a female partner for the evening, and she sent him off with a second girl who appeared silently through a door behind the desk. Kenny was deliberating. Although he had a way with the women-folk, he'd enjoyed the few times he'd fucked a guy.

"Man." He said eventually, grinning widely. She nodded, and summoned another woman to escort him up a flight of stairs and down a hallway, only stopping outside the final door, where she turned the key in the lock.

"This is Blaze's room. Go right in, sir." Kenny was frowning now.

"How come they're locked in?" The woman frowned back at him.

"For their own protection. Enjoy your time together." Without another word, she turned back towards the stairs. Kenny paused for a moment, but then turned the handle and let the door swing open. A figure was sitting on the windowsill with his face turned away, seemingly in his own little world. His flaming red hair held gentle curls, and the sharp peak of his collarbones protruded under his shirt.

"Um, hey?" Kenny ventured, stepping further into the room and shutting the door behind him. The figure started and dropped from his perch.  
It took a few moments. Kenny saw the bruises before he saw the face; blotches of purple and brown on his pale cheek, around his neck, the shadows of fingerprints wrapped around his arms, welts on his wrists. Then he drank in the curve of the boy's jaw, the angle of his cheekbones. His gaze rested on the green eyes, wide and framed with long lashes. He saw the fear within them, and the recognition. When his brain finally jolted itself into making the connection, the force of it nearly knocked him backward.

"Kyle?"


	5. Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

_I am not afraid of God,_

_I am afraid of Man_

* * *

"Kyle?" The boy standing before him didn't speak, but all colour had drained from his face. He was as white as pale moonstone, and Kenny thought for a moment that he might faint. He moved closer towards the boy, features still crinkled in confusion, part of him wondering if he'd made a mistake. "It  _is_  you, isn't it?" There was still no reply, but Kenny noticed that he was biting his lip anxiously, his jade eyes wide in horror. When he reached out a hand to touch the redhead's arm, he flinched, and Kenny withdrew quickly. In that moment, he could sense every bit of his friend's suffering as though it were carved into his skin. "Oh,  _shit._ Sit down, dude- you look like you're gonna fall." Kyle did as he was told, his movements almost mechanical, still staring up with that frightened expression. Kenny took a seat next to him, his heart beating so rapidly that it felt like a hummingbird was fluttering inside his chest. All thoughts of a happy ending were long gone. They were silent for a few minutes before Kenny spoke again. "I didn't think I'd ever see you again. I- well," He paused, taking a deep breath before he could continue. "We all thought you were dead. When you were cleared by the police, and you didn't come home-" The look on Kyle's face stopped him mid-sentence, and the realisation settled, a heavy weight, on his shoulders.

"They cleared me?" Kyle's voice was barely more than a whisper, and he had to strain his ears to hear him properly.

"You didn't know." It was a statement rather than a question. Kyle shook his head, looking as shocked as Kenny felt. "Officially, 'bout a year-and-a-half after you left, but everyone knew it was the girl's brother  _way_ before that." He could feel himself getting hot under the collar as he watched Kyle's face; a broken mess of confusion, hurt, and downright devastation was forming as he stared. "Dude, I  _swear_ we tried to get the message out. Stan even got a whole bunch'a people together and did a video- it went viral, so when we didn't hear anything from you..." His sentence trailed away, and he buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry, dude. I'm really fucking sorry.  _Everyone_ is, for the way you were treated when the police still suspected you- nothing's been the same since you went." Kyle's thoughts were in turmoil. He'd barely taken in a word after ' _you were cleared by the police_ ', head reeling with the unexpected news. When Kenny had reached out to touch him, he'd assumed that his one-time friend was going to punch him.

"Brother?" He asked feebly.

"Huh? Oh! Well it turned out that the girl- what was her name, Maya?"

"Mia." Kyle whispered.

"Right, Mia. Her brother told her all this awful stuff, that if she ever told anyone what he was doing to her, she'd be taken away from her parents and never allowed to see them again, or that she'd go to jail for the rest of her life. Crazy shit like that, and because she was only a little kid, she believed him. So when people found out she was being abused and the police interviewed her, she panicked and said it was you. I guess 'cause you spent so much time tutoring her and shit. Then a while later, another kid in their year said that she'd been touched too, but that it had been Mia's brother. Course, you were gone by this time, so all eyes fell on him and he eventually copped to it." Kyle suddenly felt very dizzy and nauseous. He'd tried hard not to think about Mia and the police investigation after he'd left home. She'd been in Ike's class, and he would help them with their homework after school. Sometimes he'd given Mia private lessons. When he'd been arrested by the cops, they'd told him that she'd claimed he had sexually abused her during these tutoring sessions, and wouldn't listen to his pleas of innocence. Not trusting himself to speak, Kyle leaned forwards, panting in a way that sent Kenny's heart racing again. He wanted to put an arm around his friend, but felt it would invade Kyle's space. He watched him anxiously, ready to catch the redhead if he passed out.

"But you all thought it  _was_  me." He hadn't meant for his words to sound so accusatory. Kenny looked agonised.

"I guess, to begin with- but honestly, I think it was the shock. Nobody saw it coming; you were always the one that was meant to go far in life. But when they put you into a foster home, saying it was to protect Ike, it seemed real serious. It was only after you disappeared that we all seemed to come to our senses. It was like a dream, y'know? A nightmare." Silence descended again.

"What are you doing here, Kenny?" Kyle's voice sounded worn, and Kenny noticed the lack of sparkle in his eyes when their gazes met. He flushed violently red.

"Ah, well, I-" There was no acceptable answer here. He couldn't really say ' _oh, well I was kinda hoping to get me some ass tonight_ '. His stumbled words had been enough of a reply.

"Oh." Was all Kyle said. He looked away again, suddenly feeling completely at a loss. Of all the whorehouses in the world, Kenny had to go and pick  _his_ whorehouse.

"What are  _you_ doing here? What happened?" It was a question Kyle could not answer, so he shrugged instead.

"Working." He said simply. Kenny was frowning now.

"But you can come back now, right? Fresh start, and all that crap." Kyle looked at him, wondering how he hadn't connected the dots yet.

"I can't leave." He said, voice deadpan.

"Huh? Course you can! I know it'd be awkward at first; what with how everyone reacted when Mia said that stuff about you, but South Park is your  _home_. Don'tcha wanna see Stan? Man, when you left, I swear a part of him died. He was so depressed he just couldn't function, even ended up in the psych ward for a while because he tried to drink himself to death." It was odd. Kyle wanted to feel bad for his best friend, feel anything at all in fact, but he was too overwhelmed by all this new information, and part of him felt that his friends  _deserved_ to suffer, as he had. All those he had once loved had played a part in his undoing. He shook his head, curls bouncing.

"No, you don't understand. I  _can't leave._ " The tone was more desperate now. He didn't want to have to explain, he didn't want Kenny to know why he couldn't go anywhere, he just wanted him to accept it and leave him to remain in his own special style of hell.

"I don't understand. Why can't you?" Kyle was still slowly shaking his head.

"You have no idea what will happen if I try to leave. I'm on my third strike, I-" His eyes widened when his brain caught up with his mouth, hardly believing what he'd just said. His hands flew to his lips. He was horrified with himself. Kenny's eyes narrowed into slits.

"Third strike? What the hell are you talking about?"

" _Please_ , don't ask me anything else. You should just go, forget you ever saw me and go." Kyle stood and started pacing the room, arms wrapped around his tiny frame. For the first time, Kenny  _truly_ noticed how thin he was. He looked as though he were one missed-meal from fading away altogether. His cheeks were hollow and ashen, his arms and legs appeared to have almost no fat on them. He had always been naturally thin, but you could be forgiven for mistaking him for some starving third-world orphan on a charity commercial. Kenny's eyes then swept over the bruises again, he thought of how the door to Kyle's room had been locked, the bars on the window-

"Oh my god." The shock of seeing one of his closest friends again for the first time in years had deadened his usual quick mind, and now the pieces of the puzzle were slotting into place. "Ky, are they  _keeping_ you here?" The redhead was wringing his hands agitatedly by now, still pacing back and forth. Kenny's voice grew ever-more serious. He stood up, and clasped his friend's shoulders, forcing him to stand still. "Look at me." He commanded. Kyle glanced at him, biting his lip. Kenny saw a bead of blood start to well. "Do you need me to call the cops?"

"No!" The word tumbled out louder than either of them had been expecting. "Please,  _please_ , don't. You'll get me killed. I don't want to die, Kenny, I  _don't want to die_!" It felt as though he were staring the Grim Reaper himself in the face, pleading for his life. The blonde released him, holding his hands up in a placatory nature.

"Okay, okay, it's alright. I won't. But I can't just leave you here and pretend this never happened- no Kyle, I can't. I won't." He said firmly as his friend opened his mouth to argue. "Can I at least tell Stan? Please? He'll want to see you."

"Why would he want to see me? Look at me!" He gestured wildly at himself. "I'm- I'm a whore. I'm not the same person I was when I left. I'm nothing, I'm a body for fucking." The last part had been spoken automatically. He was so used to being told that his only purpose was that of a sexual variety that he  _truly_ believed it. Heartbreak was etched all over Kenny's face.

"How can you say that? You're  _Kyle_. You're opinionated and outspoken and so goddamn stubborn, you're kind and honest and-" Something in the redhead's expression made him stop.

"You know  _nothing_ about me, Kenny." The emotion was gone again. "That was who I was before. I'm not him now, I'm Blaze. Kyle was all of those things, Blaze is nothing." His eyes moved to the clock on the wall. "Time's nearly up. Tell Stan if you have to, but no one else,  _please_. You don't know what these people are capable of." Kenny looked close to tears now.

"I can't just leave you here!"

"You  _have_ to. The guards will drag you out if you don't, and what they'll do to  _me_ -" He was shaking again, completely and utterly afraid. Kenny reached out once more, fingers gently tracing the fading bruise on Kyle's cheek. He didn't flinch this time, but Kenny saw the muscles in his jaw tense as though he were expecting violence.

"Okay." He whispered. He was no longer able to keep the tears from spilling. Kyle's stare was unwavering. He didn't cry.

* * *

Kenny stood outside the building smoking a cigarette, staring up at what he figured must be Kyle's window. He wondered if his friend already had another customer, if the boy who had once been so proud was at this very moment being degraded by a stranger. He barely noticed when Clyde joined him, a wide grin on his face. When he started up an incessant chatter about the girl he'd just fucked and her huge cans and moans of delight, Kenny had to clench his teeth to stop himself from blurting out that the girl was probably not there of her own accord and that Clyde had essentially raped her.

He said very little as they took the train back to central Brooklyn, and left his friend at the door of the motor inn they were staying at, saying he wanted to go for a walk.  
"It was better when we thought he was dead." He mumbled to himself as he steadily smoked his way through his pack of Rothman's Blue. He instantly regretted the thought and mentally shook himself. Kyle was doing badly, no one could disagree with that, but he could be fixed. Death, however, would be permanent. He walked for hours, winding through the streets until he came to a decision. He would call Stan, and they'd come up with a plan together to get Kyle out of there. They'd just have to be clever about it. Not wanting to waste any more time, he quickly dialled Stan's number, listening to the dial tone. "Pick up,  _come on,_ pick up you dick."

" _Hello?_ " Came Stan's sleepy voice, right on cue.

"Stan! It's me." There was a pause.

" _...Dude, it's like three in the morning. Are you high? Cause I can't do fuck-all about it with you in Brooklyn._ " Kenny would have laughed, had the situation been so humorless.

"No, no, it's not me. Listen, you need to get on a plane and come here  _right now_."

" _You're_ definitely _high dude. What the hell are you talking about?_ " Kenny was beginning to get frustrated.

"I can't explain it on the phone. It wouldn't be fair on you, but I  _have_ to talk to you and yes, before you ask, it  _has_ to be in Brooklyn. C'moooon, I'll even send you the money for your plane ticket."

" _But-_ " He found he was suddenly very short on patience.

"Stan, please, just trust me on this. I promise on my mom's life; you'll be glad you did." A derisive snort came from the receiver.

" _Not really a convincing promise from someone who got themselves legally emancipated the moment they turned sixteen._ "

"Dude, I-" Stan cut him off.

" _Yeah yeah, I get it. Alright, I'll get the next flight, but I swear to god if this is a bad joke-_ "

"It's not. Hand on heart, okay?" Kenny was so relieved he could have wept as he disconnected the call. He probably had at least a day until Stan's flight got in, so he wearily trudged back to the motel to sleep, mind entirely consumed by Kyle.

* * *

The rest of the night had been tough. His brain was spinning a hundred different plates at a hundred miles-per-hour. He was more rigidly planted in reality than he had ever been since he'd first run away, which made the working night long and painful. When the last of his clients was finally zipping up his pants, he allowed himself to lie back on the bed and think. He felt in his bedside drawer for his lighter and cigarettes amongst the dozens of condoms, and let out an irritated sigh when he found he had only one left. He lit it up anyway, wondering if one of the guards would give him a couple more in exchange for a blowjob.  
It had been a while since he had felt so much emotion at one time, and he found it utterly exhausting. Seeing Kenny had been like the weirdest of dreams, and yet he was  _sure_ it had been real, and not something he'd imagined because he'd had a particularly bad day. Kyle's skin began to prickle as he thought about how the police had  _cleared_ him; now everyone back in South Park knew that he'd been telling the truth all along. Eighteen months after he'd left home, he could have gone back. He closed his eyes, trying to think what he'd been doing at that point. Had he been working for Scorpion? Had he been in the back of the van on his way here? Would his broken body have been salvageable at that time? It was then he realised that he hadn't thought to ask how old they were now, or what the date was, or even the city they were in. It was all too much. Kyle found himself wishing for something to take it all away, whether it be alcohol or drugs. Only it was daytime now, a time he should be using to sleep, and Dana had asked him not to use once the sun was up, to utilise his imagination instead. Most of the time, this worked, and Kyle would be able to sink into the part of his mind where anything was possible, but his fantasy world had crashed sickeningly into his reality, and no matter how hard he tried he couldn't keep his mind from the life he had left behind. He wanted Kenny to stay away, to keep his tongue to himself, but the tiny ember that housed what was left of his former self so badly wanted him and Stan to come and take him away from the nightmare his world had become.


	6. Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

_In my thoughts I have seen_

_Rings of smoke through the trees_

_And the voices of those who stand looking_

* * *

It had been the longest wait of Kenny's life. He couldn't seem to stay still, feeling a deep-seated need to keep his hands and mind occupied until Stan arrived. He sent Clyde back to South Park, insisting that he had more he needed to do in Brooklyn, and called his boss to ask for a few extra days off. Kenny was a hard-worker, and thankfully hadn't been asked too many questions. After that, he was at a loss to think what to do. He couldn't face another few hours of walking aimlessly through the streets, not until Stan was there with him to talk things through. He'd already tidied his motel room to the point of it being cleaner than it probably had ever been, and he'd withdrawn all the money he could, wanting to go back and see Kyle later. It felt incredibly perverse and treacherous to give money to the captors of one of his closest friends just for the privilege of talking to him for a little while, but Kenny tried to reason with himself that it gave Kyle an hour or two's break from what he'd usually be expected to do. It made Kenny feel sick just thinking about it, and he knew in his heart that he would never pay for sex again. He was sure that not every working girl he'd come across was doing it because they were being forced to, but you never really know what lies beneath the surface until its hateful stare is scorching your skin.  
In the end, he headed to an internet cafe, ordered a coffee and sat himself at the computer farthest away from anyone else for a bit of privacy. For the next couple of hours, he researched sex trafficking, finding himself appalled at what he discovered. He hadn't realised how big the industry was, how far-reaching and dangerous, with many victims not surviving even to the age of twenty due to neglect, disease and systematic torture. Thinking of the bruises he'd seen on Kyle made him shudder all the more. He also found that a staggeringly small number of people were successfully convicted, as society had a tendency to blame those who carried out the crime of prostitution rather than those who facilitated and profited from it.  
He was so engrossed in his research that the sudden shrill ringtone of his cell made him start. He saw, with relief, that it was Stan calling. He'd landed, and they could start to put the world to rights.

* * *

Kyle was disappointed with himself. Seeing Kenny had brought back a part of the fiery personality he had been known for before it had been knocked out of him, and he was bitterly regretting it now. After hours of lying on his bed, thoughts running in circles, he'd finally dropped off to sleep, only to be woken just a few minutes later by one of the cruelest guards to take him to the toilet.

"Get up, faggot. Haven't got all day." He'd pulled the thin blanket away and grasped him by the wrist, and Kyle had wrenched it away.

"Fuck off." He'd mumbled, still dazed from sleep. For a moment, as he sat bolt upright with the realisation of what he'd just said, the guard didn't react. It seemed, for a blissful minute, that he hadn't heard, but before he could try to dig himself out of the hole, the fist connected with his cheek with a sickening crack. Another blow struck before his brain had registered the pain from the first, and Kyle suddenly found himself curled on his walnut floorboards with the shots raining down as though he'd been caught in a meteor shower. He hadn't been able to move for a long time even after the guard had left, still coiled tightly into himself, bleeding and battered. Every shuddering breath hurt like fire in his chest, and even the thought of moving made him feel weak. When he did manage to shift himself, he could only drag himself to his bedside, a hiss flowing from his bloody lips with the effort of dragging his wash bowl out. He wanted to wipe the blood away before it dried, and the crimson stained the water a faint pink. It was hard not to think of Dana, and how well she'd taken care of him when he'd been released from his cell, how she'd comforted him when he felt lonely or sick or scared. His limbic system released a sudden memory of the time he'd been arrested on suspicion of solicitation, how awful it had been for his wrists to be stilled in handcuffs as the cops had taken him down to the station. He hadn't dared utter a single word, even when Dana herself had come to ask for her 'brother' to be returned into her care.

"Poor lad isn't quite right," She'd confided to the officer manning the front desk in a low whisper, leaning conspiratorially on her elbows. "Not since our pa left -he was always deep in his cups, see- and he sometimes gets it into his head that he can find him. I can't even tell you the shock when I found his bed empty this morning. Thanks for taking such good care of him, you  _are_ a dear. I swear I'll keep a closer eye on him from now on." The officer had simpered and smiled, and Kyle and Dana had left the station trying to conceal their laughter. The thought brought the slightest ghost of a smile to his lips as he continued to mop up his wounds. It had seemed an eternity since he'd last been able to smile properly. He could lift the corners of his mouth in an approximation, and his customer service smile was pretty close, but there was no spontaneity to it, no sudden outburst of laughter he just couldn't contain.

* * *

"This had better be good, dude." Stan looked exhausted as he trudged towards Kenny, overnight bag slung over one shoulder. He felt a sudden rush of affection towards his friend, and dashed forwards for a hug.

"It is! Well-" Kenny paused. "It is, and it isn't. It's awful, actually. C'mon, lets go find somewhere quiet and I'll tell you." They stopped for drinks at the takeaway service outside the airport, and carried their styrofoam cups to a bench at the waterfront, staring out at the East River in silence.

"What did you need, bro?" Stan eventually asked once the coffee had started to perk him up. Kenny took a deep breath, trying to claim some sense of order over his cluttered thoughts.

"It's not me. It's Kyle." Stan blinked at him in surprise. They didn't often talk about their friend; once it had become clear that he was gone for good it had seemed too distressing. He didn't reply. "He's here. He's in Brooklyn." Stan shot upright, dropping his cup. Kenny drew his feet away from the hot, dark liquid that stained the ground.

"Kenny, that's not funny." He said darkly, glowering at his friend.

"No, it's not funny. Not in the slightest." Stan's brow lifted slightly, anger giving way to a sudden uprising of hope.

"You're serious? You've seen him? He's  _alive_?" Kenny paused, still not sure quite how to tell Stan about how he'd found their missing friend.

"Yeah, he's alive, and yeah I've seen him." He took a sip of his own drink, then offered the rest to Stan, who waved him off, irritated again.

"God  _damn_ it, stop wasting time and tell me where! Is he alright? What did he say?!" The blond sighed. A softly softly approach clearly wasn't going to work here, so he was better off just to spit it out.

"Okay, okay, I'll tell you everything. Sit down, dude, and fuckin' drink this. I'm already too wired." He pressed the rest of his coffee into Stan's hand as he dropped heavily beside him. "Alright, so my course finished yesterday, right? So Clyde wanted to... Uh... Peruse his choice of local women."

"What?"

"Fuck. Okay, so we went to this whorehouse on the edge of town." The word made Kenny cringe, but he couldn't think of a more delicate way of phrasing it. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Jesus Christ dude, I don't wanna hear-" Kenny cut him off.

"Yes, you  _do_ want to hear. I'm sorry, and I'm sorry again for what I'm about to tell you, but you need to know this. So Clyde goes off to bang some chick, and I decided I wanted to spend the night in, ah,  _male_ company." Stan was still watching, dark eyes bright with hope, nodding for him to continue. Kenny groaned. Seemed he would have to spell it out. "And- and they took me to him."

"To who?"

"To Kyle, dumbass!" Stan leaned back, swiftly paling.

"What are you saying?" His tone was denunciatory.

"You know what I'm saying, dude. He works there. Well, he does, but he doesn't. Stan, they're keeping him there. He looks awful."

"Please,  _please_ tell me you didn't-" Kenny punched Stan in the shoulder, hurt by the unsaid accusation.

"Is that what you think of me? Of course I fucking didn't! We  _talked_ , that was all. He didn't say much; but he let slip that he has two strikes, whatever that means, and basically that 'they' will kill him if he tries to run or call the cops. But man, we  _have_  to get him out of there. Don't think I've ever been face-to-face with someone who looked so... Broken." His eyes narrowed at Stan, who had gone a familiar shade of green. "Dude, you look like-" He didn't finish his sentence as his friend violently puked all over the sidewalk. Sighing, he searched his pocket for a tissue.

"Sorry." Stan mumbled, swilling a mouthful of coffee and spitting it out to get rid of the taste of vomit. "Has he been there all this time? Did he see my video?" Kenny shook his head sadly.

"No clue, and no. He had no idea he'd been cleared. He told me I could tell you if I had to, but that we can't tell anyone else. He's really scared, barely stopped shaking the whole time I was there." Stan had gotten to his feet again.

"I want to see him." Kenny's smile was weak.

"Figured. But the place doesn't open for a few hours, so I thought maybe we could try and come up with a plan in the meantime?" Stan shifted his weight from one side to the other, clearly impatient to see Kyle.

"Can't we go now and like- demand to see him?"

"Don't think that's a good idea man. We could get him in shit." Stan thought this through for a moment before making a reluctant sound of ascent.

"What's he like? Did he ask about me?" Kenny grimaced.

"I think you'll have to see for yourself. He's nothing like he was before the police investigation, nothing at all. But that could just be because he's afraid." He added hastily at the distraught look on Stan's face. "C'mon, we'll go back to my motel room and think about how we're gonna get him out, kay?"

* * *

The mousy-haired girl had come, and  _thank god_ , she'd brought him a couple of pills with his food. He'd taken them right away. They hadn't done much for his mental state, but the pain decimating his body had faded some, enough for him to be able to work as usual. He was sketching now, desperate to keep his mind busy until his first clients arrived. He'd drawn a pond surrounded by trees, struck by a sense of familiarity. Had he been there before? His mind was too full to think, so he continued to shade the pine needles dully, head tilted to one side. The thump at his door pulled him from his reverie and sent his heart pounding as he dashed to conceal his sketchbook in the slit in his mattress. It was just a precursory knock to let him know that the doors were open, that he should be ready to receive at any minute. He didn't always get customers right away, but he was expected to sit demurely and wait for them all the same. He took his place at the windowsill, face aimed towards the door, wondering what he'd get tonight. With any luck, it'd be one of his more-gentle regulars to start with, something to ease him into what promised to be a difficult night. His breathing hitched involuntarily at the sound of a key turning in the lock.  
When the door opened, he felt the colour drain from his face. His head started to swim when Kenny entered the room and stopped short when he got a good look at Kyle, and when  _Stan_ followed, he had to grip the windowsill to keep himself , his loyal, trustworthy, funny best friend, was now standing before him, cobalt eyes large in their horror. Stan was there, staring at him, and Kyle stared back. Kenny stood between them, glancing from one to the other, not sure who looked more stunned. The silence that ballooned between them seemed about to explode. Kyle was feeling dizzy again. His head was pounding, he felt as though he couldn't  _breathe_ , and the floor came rushing up to meet him as his legs gave way and he fell to his knees. Kenny was at his side in an instant, muttering things in his ear, but Kyle had eyes only for Stan. His friend's collapse had stirred him into action, and he took a step forward, hand outstretched as if to try and reverse the moment when he'd fallen so that  _this_ time he could catch him.

"Kyle." His voice cracked. "Ky, I-" And he was crying now, raw sobs and tears that spurted down his face in an iridescent sheen. Kyle continued to stare, brain full of static, only pulled from his internal struggle when Stan placed a hand at the back of his neck. He flinched. "Who did this to you?" Stan rounded on Kenny. "Why the fuck didn't you say he was this bad?" The angry tone made Kyle nervous. He shut his eyes, half of him waiting for someone to strike, half knowing that these were hands he need not fear.

"He wasn't! He  _wasn't_ this bad yesterday, it happened after I left- oh, god." He had a hand covering his mouth now, and when he spoke his voice was muffled. "Was this my fault?" Kyle shook his head, eyes still closed, head still rushing.

"No," He mumbled. "Me."

"What could you possible have done to deserve-" Stan's voice trailed away. Kyle finally opened his eyes a crack.

"Told the guard to fuck off." That was  _so_ like him, Kenny almost smiled. It was a relief to see some of his old self in there somewhere, despite Kyle having insisted that the person he'd once been was gone. Green eyes swivelled suddenly, finding Kenny's and giving him a reproachful look. "I asked you not to do this." He whispered.

"Ky, you told me not to tell anyone but Stan. You didn't say I couldn't  _bring_ him here..." He hung his head, blond hair covering his features. "You're right. It was a dick move, but I couldn't not. I'm sorry. I had to tell him, and there was no way he wouldn't have wanted to see you." Stan nodded vehemently. Kyle pulled away from his grasp; he couldn't bear to be touched anymore.

"Ken told me what you said." He didn't think he'd ever heard Stan speaking so gently before, in all their years of friendship. "And I know you're scared. But we'll sort it, okay? We have a plan- we're gonna get you out of here, and then everything will be fine." Kyle knew they were wrong. How could they not see it?"

"They'll look for me. They'll kill us all."

"Then we'll just have to be careful. South Park is almost two-thousand miles from here; they won't  _ever_ find you." Kyle just looked at him through his bruised eyes. Stan wanted to pull him into a hug, hold him tight, try to tell him how  _serious_ he was about keeping him safe; but he didn't dare touch him. Kyle looked like he might shatter into a million shards if he was treated with anything other than the utmost of care. "You trust me, right? Trust me on this." Kyle looked away. He _didn't_ trust Stan. It wasn't that he thought he might be betrayed; more that he didn't trust anyone at all now. Blaze was screaming at him to get them to leave, but his Old Self was rearing his head at the tiny flicker of hope Stan and Kenny were instilling in him.

"How?" He asked eventually. Stan's gaze moved to the barred window.

"We'll come and see you again," He explained patiently. "In a couple days time, right at the end of the night. Ken will wear his hood and his shades, and then when we're here he'll swap with you. I'll walk out with you and distract the woman at the front desk, and a few minutes later Kenny will follow us down. You just keep walking north and we'll catch you up. Do you understand?" He did understand. It was a simple plan, but every bit of the experience he had gained in the past few years was screaming at him that it was a stupid idea. The expression on his face must have said so; Stan looked crestfallen.

"What if it doesn't work? If they kill you-"

"It  _will_ work. Once we're out of this place, everything is simple."

"I look nothing like Kenny. They'll know it's me the moment they see me." He gestured to the bruises.

"Then we'll bring cover-up." Stan's voice was becoming desperate now. "Please, Ky.  _Please_. We couldn't go back to South Park without you, it'd kill us." Kyle looked deeply into Stan's eyes, and then Kenny's. He saw the determination there, the despair. He saw how much it meant to him. He realised, with a jolt, that there  _were_ still people who cared about him. The revelation took his breath away.

"Okay." He whispered, before he knew what he was doing. His hands flew to his mouth a split-second after, but the deed was already done. The relief on his friends' faces was clear. Kyle wanted to change the subject before Blaze could tell him how moronic he was being. "How's my family? How's Ike?" Stan's face clouded over; Kyle's heart skipped a beat. His eyes grew wide in fear and his breaths starting coming in short bursts.

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Kenny said quickly. "They're fine, all fine. But they moved to New Jersey after you disappeared. I don't think they could face the rest of us, after everything."

"Did they think I hurt Mia?" When he'd first been arrested, his parents had seemed too shocked to speak to him, and when he was taken into foster care all contact had ceased completely. Stan shook his head.

"No, Ky. Ike especially, he  _always_ said you'd never do that. And when you were cleared we got in contact with him to let him know, but he didn't reply. Can't blame him." Stan exchanged a look with Kenny. "Kyle, I'm-"

"I know," He cut in. "You're sorry. It's fine. Worse things have happened." It was a loaded statement. Stan sat back on his heels and grabbed Kyle's hand, not able to resist the urge any longer.

"I'll never forgive myself, and I don't expect you to, either. You can say it's fine, we all know it isn't. We drove you away,  _all_ of us, and you should hate us for it.  _I_ hate me. But when we get you out of here we can all start to make it up to you, if that's possible." His fingers absently stroked Kyle's wrists. "You're freezing. Can you stand?" Kyle nodded, but his legs shook wildly when he was upright, and he looked like he might collapse all over again. Kenny grasped his elbows, trying to ignore the involuntary twitch it caused, and steered him to the bed. Kyle pulled his knees to his chest, still shaking, when a thought occurred to him.

"How old are we? I forgot to ask before." The confused looks they gave him made him blush. Kenny was the first to recover.

"Uh, sixteen. It's March, so in a couple months we'll both turn seventeen." Kyle looked surprised. Of course he'd known that a lot of time had passed, but it had slipped by in an abstract sort of way like the constant flowing of a river. To hear it spoken out loud made it real, and he found himself wishing he hadn't asked. They all sat in awkward silence for a few minutes. Stan had so many questions he wanted to ask, but he was scared it would push Kyle further away. He wanted to know how he'd come to be in this place, who had roughed him up so badly, just how many unkind hands it took to make a person so afraid of living a life that was  _worth_  living. He wanted to ask when the spark had left Kyle's bright green eyes, when the curls in his hair had loosened, why he wasn't angry, why he was still even deigning to talk to himself and Kenny when they'd turned their backs on him. He'd never been able to delete the text Kyle had sent him shortly before his disappearance. ' _I didn't do it, Stan,_ ' it had read. ' _I don't know how to prove it, and I don't know what I've done before now to make people think that I could ever do something so horrible. You know me, we've been friends since we were little kids. This isn't me, and I can't stand thinking that you think I'm as evil as everyone else does. Please text me back this time, I need to know if there's even one person left in my life that believes me. Please._ '. It had been the last text he'd ever received from his closest friend in the world, and he had not replied. Even now, he was wondering how much agony could have been prevented if he'd just sent a message back saying ' _I believe you._ '. Three words, one for each year Kyle had spent in hell, one for each year that Stan had felt himself die a little more on the inside.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

_Every whisper_

_Of every breaking hour_

_I'm choosing my confessions,_

_Trying to keep an eye on you_

_Like a hurt, lost and blinded fool_

_Oh no, I've said too much_

_I set it up_

* * *

 He couldn't eat. He couldn't sleep. His breathing felt constricted, as though someone had their hands around his throat and were slowly tightening their grasp. Every unfamiliar sound, highlighted in the quiet of dawn, made his muscles tense until he was as tightly wound as a serpent ready to strike. Only, he was not the hunter in this scenario, but the prey.  _Everything_ was at risk here. Nothing was certain, only that he was putting the lives of three people on the line. His stomach jolted painfully whenever he thought about Stan or Kenny dying because of him. He wished with every aching atom that he hadn't agreed to their plan, that he'd insisted that he was happy where he was, but any fool would have known he was lying.  
Time was closing in on him now, shapeless as the rain that fell from the solid, concrete wall of clouds above him. He shivered. He shook. He pleaded with the universe to stop Stan and Kenny from carrying out the plan. He imagined them changing their minds, realising how insane they were being, shrugging their shoulders and heading back to South Park without him. He had never been so afraid, because this time there was  _so_ much more to lose than himself.

* * *

 Stan was pacing back and forth across the motel room, muttering the plan to himself and intermittently running a hand through his dishevelled hair. Kenny sat on the bed, folding clothes haphazardly and stuffing them into his case. They wanted to leave as soon as they had Kyle; there would be no time for packing later. Although they'd fit poorly, they'd set aside some clean clothes for him to change into when they arrived at the bus station.  
It would be a long journey, but since they had no ID for Kyle, they'd decided to take a bus and a train rather than risk problems by attempting to use air travel.

"Shouldn't we take him to the hospital first?" Stan asked suddenly, standing still and looking flustered. Kenny shrugged.

"We'll have to ask him. You think he'd agree to go?" Stan considered this for a moment.

"Probably not. I guess if I were him I'd want to get away from this city as soon as possible." Kenny nodded his agreement, finally zipping up his case. They would hide their bags, and collect them as soon as they were a safe distance away with Kyle.  _If_ they got a safe distance away. Although he would never voice his feelings to Stan, who couldn't have been deterred even by a tsunami, Kenny felt doubt. Kyle was the one who had lived this life for over three years, and although his perspective was no doubt marred by his negative experiences, he seemed certain that they wouldn't be successful. It scared Kenny, knowing that this was their only chance, but everything was set in place now, and there was no way he would be chickening out. He hadn't told Stan, but earlier in the day he'd texted Bebe. If he hadn't messaged her within twenty-four hours, she was to call the police and send them to the building where Kyle was kept- no questions asked. Bebe was a good friend; he trusted that she would keep his request a secret, and somehow he felt better knowing that their murders would not go unnoticed if everything went to shit.

"We should get going soon." Stan was biting his nails now, brow creased in deep thought, but he nodded. In silence, the two picked up their bags, and headed out the door. It was time. Now or never.

* * *

 Kyle couldn't stop himself looking up at the clock. He'd been watching it recurrently since the doors had opened, and with every hour that passed the ball of tension in his stomach grew heavier. As the man currently breaching his defences grunted in his apex of passion, Kyle was pushed further forward on the bed, falling onto his elbows with a tiny gasp. When the man was gone, he washed and redressed himself quickly. Absurdly, he found himself wishing that he could do something about the musty smell his customers had left, as though he were an attentive host waiting to receive guests into his home.  
A few minutes later, the door opened again, and there were his friends. Stan looked doggedly focused, but Kenny gave him a small smile as they shut the door behind him.

"Okay, Ky?" He asked, repressing the urge to pat his friend on the back as he would any other. Kyle could only nod mutely, biting his lip so hard that he felt the already sensitive skin crack. Stan pulled a bottle of foundation from his pocket as Kenny started to peel off the layers of clothing, stripping down to a t-shirt and the pair of joggers he had on under his jeans. They were both dark in colour, and he'd brought an extra hoodie carefully concealed under the one he wore so that, with any luck, the difference would not be noticeable when Stan left with Kyle. They'd both brought their sunglasses too. Stan sat on the bed with Kyle, who tried not to move away whenever his friend dabbed the cover-up over his bruises. He didn't like to be touched, didn't like the feeling of coarse skin brushing over his sensitive marks, but he managed to withstand it until the blemishes were fairly well hidden.

"They won't be visible in the lobby, the lighting's crappy down there anyway." Stan assured him, trying to summon a smile. Kenny handed him the clothes, and they both tactfully turned their backs so Kyle could change in privacy. They were hanging off him, but Kenny hoped that they would just look baggy in the half-light.

"Ready?" Kyle watched them for a moment.

"How long did you pay for?"

"An hour, why?"

"It's only been twenty minutes."

"So?" Kenny understood what Kyle was trying to say.

"Will they get suspicious if we go now?" The redhead looked relieved, nodding earnestly.

"They'll want to know why. We should wait until there's," He tilted his head. "Maybe fifteen minutes left." Stan nodded.

"How many guards are there? Where do they patrol? We haven't seen any." Kyle shrugged.

"I don't know. Thirty of them, maybe? Don't think they patrol when there's customers though. Too obvious." Stan felt it should be obvious either way. It was clear to him that this was a place of corruption, and it made him wonder why no one else had reported it to the police. Kenny had told him, slightly guiltily, that his theory was that lust could blind people to extremes.  
The tension was palpable as the minutes ticked slowly by. Kyle was on the windowsill again, staring through the bars, hands clenched and knuckles white. Stan paced like a caged animal, Kenny sat on the end of the bed and prayed to all the deities he could think of. He wasn't usually one for religion, but on the off-chance that someone was watching, they needed all the help they could get.

"We'd better go." Stan said quietly, once enough time had passed. Kyle, who was suddenly whiter than freshly settled snow, gasped as he remembered something.

"Hang on." He knelt beside his bed, slipping his hand under the sheets and feeling for the rip. Stan and Kenny exchanged a look.

" _What's he doing_?" Stan mouthed.

" _How should I know_?" Came the silent reply. Kyle withdrew his hand again, clutching what looked like a few crushed pieces of paper and a little book to his chest. He slipped the sketchbook into the hoodie pocket, but held tightly to his drawing and photos. He wanted them for strength, for comfort, no matter what happened next. Stan held the door out for them, and all at once, he was out. He followed his friend to the stairwell, trying to slow his staccato breathing. Each step they took sent another spiral of panic through him, but he somehow managed to keep his legs solid even though they felt like jelly. Halfway down the stairs, his heart stopped. A girl was ascending them, a girl with mousy hair and large, frightened eyes. She was carrying a tray of empty dishes, and nearly dropped them when she caught sight of Kyle. He stared back, equally as fearful, certain that she was going to raise the alarm. But as she drew nearer, she gave him the tiniest of smiles and a minute nod, and carried on past them.

"Do you know her?" Stan whispered when she was gone. Kyle nodded. He wished he knew her name now, her story, who she was before she became nothing. They continued down the stairs, and at the bottom, Stan stopped him. "Head that way." He muttered, gesturing with one arm, the other coming to rest briefly on Kyle's shoulder. As they reached the lobby, Stan broke away, striking up a stilted conversation with the woman who was manning the desk. Kyle kept walking, hardly daring to breath. A guard stepped out of a door, and his blood turned to ice in his veins. He hadn't seen this one too often, but there was a look of recognition on the man's face that nearly stopped him in his tracks. There was a sudden crash upstairs that made them all start, and the guard's attention was diverted long enough for Kyle to slip out the door. The cold blast of air that hit him made him feel more alive than he had in years. He wanted to run then, feel the solid concrete slapping his feet and the wind whip through his hair, but he kept his pace controlled until the grey-bricked building was out of sight. Then his knees buckled, and he found himself crouched on the ground, breathless and overwhelmingly scared. He was  _free_ , but Stan and Kenny wouldn't be joining him for a few minutes, and time was slowing down again. He forced his vision to the stars, searching for the boldest and brightest of all.

"I'm out, Dana. You said there was a way out. I might not be safe, but," His breath caught in his throat. "I'm out. For now." He could almost see her delighted smile twinkling down at him. When he heard footsteps, he scrambled to his feet again, slipping backwards into the shadows. It was  _them_. It was his friends, and if he could have remembered how, he could have laughed with relief. All three of them had escaped, and they silently moved forward as one, into the night.

* * *

 "It got a bit hairy when I came out." Kenny told them later, as they sat waiting for their bus. "I came out of one room and this  _huge_ man with tattoos down his face came out of another. He was coming towards me, lookin' at me like he knew something was up, but then this girl came out of nowhere and dropped a tray." A pang of guilt erupted from somewhere within Kyle. The girl had probably already been punished by the Slasher, and he was suddenly wishing they could have taken her with them. Stan was watching him.

"She made her own decision, Ky." He said gently. "Did you know her name?" Kyle shook his head. He was still reeling from the events of that night, and hadn't spoken a word since he had talked to Dana. Kenny had bought him a sandwich and a bottle of water, but he couldn't eat and could barely manage to take small sips of his drink. He felt sick. He was sure he would puke.

On the bus, Stan gave Kyle his iPod and earphones, and he sat staring out the window, listening to music. It had been so,  _so_ long since he'd listened to music. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, and fell asleep remarkably quickly. His muscles relaxed, and his head lulled against Stan's shoulder, lips slightly parted.

"He always slept like that when we were kids." Kenny said, his tone hushed. Stan nodded, managing a small smile.

"Can't believe that went so well." He admitted, looking at Kenny. The blonde's eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"I didn't think you had any doubts." Stan shrugged, grimacing.

"I tried not to, but a small part in my head kept telling me something would go wrong. Like when something's just out of your reach, but you just can't stretch enough to grab hold of it." Kenny nodded knowingly.

"I felt like that too. Speaking of, Ky's dropped whatever he was holding." Stan gently moved his head to take a look.

"Can you get it? I don't wanna wake him." Kenny leaned forward to scoop up the scraps of paper, turning them over in his hands.

"It's us!" He exclaimed. Stan shushed him, and for a moment they both glanced to Kyle, thankfully still asleep. Kenny felt the sting of tears in his eyes as he looked at the photographs, remembering their beach vacation with a soft smile.

"What's the other one?" He carefully unfolded the drawing, and they both looked at it.

" _That_ one must be Kyle. Wonder who the other person is." Stan shrugged, his gaze shifting towards Kyle as he twitched in his sleep.

* * *

 He was back in his cell, tied up and crying aloud in pain.

"This is your fault." He looked up into the faces of Kenny, Stan, Dana, even the mousy girl with no name, all of them sporting matching stab wounds to their chests. Blood dripped steadily from each body, until it was pooling at Kyle's ankles. "You did this." Their voices had no human emotion to them, empty words that stung him.

"I'm sorry," He wept, trying to pull away from his bonds. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, I swear I didn't mean it! I never wanted any of this." Their hands were reaching for him, cold digits that wrapped around his wrists, his cheeks, his throat. The blood was at his chest now. He was going to drown in it.

" _Kyle._ " He sobbed wretchedly, still mumbling over and over again that he was  _sorry_ , that he wished he was the one who had died, telling them that their lives were worth so much more than his ever had been.

" _Kyle!_ " The voice was muted, cloaked in a shroud.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Dana,  _please_."

"Kyle!" He opened his eyes, the light burning, the sounds of an engine whirring filling his eardrums.

"Not Kyle." He said groggily, blinking at the voices that spoke. "Where's Dana?"

"What? Who's Dana?"

"Stan?" He was back on the bus again. Kenny had his hand around Kyle's own. He pulled away, trying to fold himself into the corner.

"You were dreaming, Ky. It's okay." Kyle nodded, digging the palms of his hands into his eyes, trying to push the exhaustion away. Everyone was staring at him, he realised, turning in their seats to get a good look at him. He shrank away, sitting with his knees to his chest, feeling for his photographs, his drawing. Stan pressed them to his hands.

"You dropped them. You okay?" He nodded, looking properly into their concerned faces, feeling guilty again.

"We'll be stopping soon," Kenny told him. "We can get out and stretch our legs for a bit. You hungry?" Kyle shook his head. He wasn't too sure what hunger felt like anymore; the pangs in his stomach never went away.

"Sure? Not even a cheeseburger? They used to be one of your favourites." Stan wheedled. Kyle hadn't eaten anything in almost a day, and his skin was already stretched to breaking point over his prominent bones. The thought of a cheeseburger made Kyle's stomach flip over. He was used to plain food, and the thought of anything deep-fried was enough to make him want to be sick all over again.  
When the bus finally stopped, he stood some distance away, smoking the cigarette Kenny had given him and nervously glancing around while the other two got themselves something to eat. He could feel the stares of the other passengers, who gave him a wide berth as they strolled about. It made him feel very small and yet blindingly obvious, the same way he'd felt when he'd been taken to that club to meet clients. His painful reality was staring them in the face, but it only served to make other people feel uncomfortable.

"Hey, Ky?" He turned to Stan, who was holding an apple out to him. He stared at it, his mind still elsewhere, but after a moment's hesitation he took it, rolling it round in his palm, thumb brushing over the smooth skin. It made him think of the apple he'd had most recently, the tiny bruised piece of fruit that he'd savoured every bite of. Had that really only been a few days ago?

"I like these." He said quietly, to no one in particular. Stan smiled at him, relieved to hear him speak again. Kyle had always been so outspoken; he was finding the constant silence a little unnerving.

"I was thinking, do you want to call your parents while we're here? You can use my cell." Kyle looked up sharply, looking fearful again.

"Have you told them?" He asked, a note of consternation in his voice.

"No, no, don't worry. We haven't told anyone. I just thought you might-" But Kyle was shaking his head, his movements almost frantic.

"I can't. Not yet. I'm putting everyone in danger, I'm-" He bit his lip, thinking of the blood-soaked dream. "I'm sorry." He whispered.

"Don't be. You have no reason to be sorry. I owe you this much, dude. We don't have to tell anyone, not until you're ready." Kenny appeared at his side, Pall Mall hanging from one corner of his mouth, smiling brightly. Stan was always grateful for the blonde's naturally cheerful nature. Sometimes, when things were particularly hard, his constant radiance of warmth had helped more than Stan could say.

"Not much longer now, we'll be on the home stretch soon!" Kyle wasn't sure how he felt about that. Part of him was desperate to get back to his roots, the other part terrified about how his sudden reappearance would cause the South Park inhabitants to react. "Oh, did I tell you I have my own place now?" He looked up at Kenny, surprised.

"You do?" The blonde beamed proudly.

"Yup! Got myself emancipated from my parents soon as I could, got a job, and moved outta there!" Kyle attempted a smile, but he was worried that it looked more like a grimace.

"That's great, Kenny. I'm happy for you."

"You can stay with me? I mean, if you want to. I have the room, and Stan can come over whenever he wants to." He hadn't even thought of where he would go when they got back to South Park. He knew his family weren't there anymore, but some part of him had imagined his house just the way he'd left it. He felt a staggering wave of gratitude towards his friends, thankful that they were treating him like a person. He wasn't used to it yet; he'd been only a body for fucking for so long, but it made him feel oddly human.

"I- that's- that's really kind. Thank you."

Kyle didn't speak much the rest of the journey as they transferred from bus to train, but the passing scenery that flashed past of the window made him feel unusually peaceful. South Park, drawing ever closer, was draped in a shroud of darkness. He was relieved, as this would mean that there was less chance of being seen. When the automated voice announced their stop, he followed Stan and Kenny from the train, and stepped out onto the blanket of snow. It crunched under his feet, that familiar biting cold that they'd so often complained about as kids. It felt comforting now.

"It's not far away." Kenny assured him. Although none of them would admit it, they all felt more relaxed on home territory. This was the end of the road, they'd successfully brought Kyle back safely. They walked in silence, Kyle looking all around him at the familiar buildings. He'd once called this place home, but it suddenly seemed very foreign.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's late. Had a shit week.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

_I guess that it comes with the territory_

_An ominous landscape of never ending calamity_

_I need you to hear_

_I need you to see that I have had all that I can take_

_And exploding seems like a definite possibility to me_  

* * *

It was quiet now, and despite being exhausted, Kenny found himself unable to sleep. He tossed and turned in bed, thinking about Kyle. He'd insisted on taking the futon in the living room, and Kenny had conceded after his tone had risen to the pitch of panic, wondering if the redhead was afraid of being locked in again. Stan had gone home, promising to return after school the next day, and it was likely that he wasn't sleeping either. After an hour or two, Kenny gave up trying to chase sleep, and slipped out of bed.

"Ky? You awake?" He called softly into the living room, padding through on bare feet.

"Yeah." The reply was barely audible. Kenny switched the light on, and they both blinked at the harsh glow for a moment. Kyle was sitting curled up as he often did, skin almost translucent, dark shadows under his eyes. Kenny sat at the opposite end of the futon, watching him carefully. Kyle's breathing was rattling in his chest, he noticed.

"Are you sick? You don't sound too good."

"I get sick a lot. It's nothing." It didn't sound like nothing, but Kenny didn't push the matter. He felt that forcing Kyle to talk about things he was uncomfortable with would only push him further past the protective walls he'd constructed.

"Okay. There's pills in the bathroom cabinet, if you need them."

"Where do you work?" He asked. The sudden change of subject didn't go unnoticed.

"A restaurant. It's called Plates; fairly new. I'm a chef there." Kyle heard the pride in Kenny's voice, and tried hard to adjust his facial features into an expression of happiness.

"That's amazing, Ken. I always knew you'd do something cool."

"Really? I always thought everyone had low expectations for me, considering the kind of family I come from."

"That's not true. I mean, look at the family  _I_ come from, look where I've ended up." He had meant it matter-of-factly, but Kenny looked sheepish.

"Sorry Ky, I didn't mean to-"

"No! No, I'm genuinely pleased for you. You must have worked really hard. It's not your fault you landed on your feet and me on my back." The moment the words were out, he regretted them. A hand flew to his mouth, and he felt a flush creeping up his face. Kenny tentatively moved closer, and pulled the hand away, squeezing it for a moment before he released it.

"You don't have to be ashamed, Kyle. And it wasn't  _your_ fault, either. I hope you know that you can tell me or Stan anything, and it won't go any further." For a while they were both silent. Kenny got up to make them both a mug of decaf, and buttered some hot toast in the hopes that he could get Kyle to eat some. The plate sat between them, but he only nibbled on the corner of one square. It was better than nothing, Kenny supposed. He'd already told his friend that he could help himself to whatever he wanted to eat, and that there would  _always_ be food in the house. Although their experiences were wildly different, it was painfully obvious that Kyle hadn't been fed much, as Kenny hadn't when he was a child. When he'd first moved into his own apartment, he'd found himself getting up in the middle of the night just to check that his cupboards were still fully stocked, always afraid of not having food to eat again. He'd gotten the sense that it was the same for Kyle. "Let's have a smoke, and then we should probably try to get some sleep." They went out to the balcony, both of them shivering in the cold night air, staring out over the skyline. "When did you start smoking?" He asked, for lack of a better conversation. Kyle considered, brow furrowed in concentration.

"I think I was thirteen. Maybe fourteen, I can't remember. You?"

"Fifteen. Started out by stealing my pa's, when he was too fucked to remember." His smile was mischievous, reminding Kyle of all those times the four boys had gotten into trouble as kids.

"Remember that time when we put those little sea monkey things in Ms. Choksondik's coffee and thought we'd killed her?" He wasn't sure why he'd thought of that. Kenny snorted with laughter, clamping a hand over his mouth so as not to wake the neighbours. Kyle was pleased that he'd made his friend laugh. It felt good.

"I haven't thought about that in  _years_. Ha, remember how Chef packed us all suitcases and got us all plane tickets out of the country?" For a moment, he thought he saw the ghost of a smile cross Kyle's delicate features. It gave him hope.

* * *

 

Kenny slept late the next day. He didn't have work until the evening, and his body desperately needed the extra sleep after the exhausting few days he'd had. When he finally rose from his bed, he felt much better. He padded through to the living room, where he'd left Kyle curled up the night before, and was not surprised to find him awake, staring off into the distance.

"Mornin', Ky." He said as he passed through to the bathroom. "How did you sleep?" No reply came, but then Kyle had never been a morning person. It was only when he looked properly at his friend on his return that he noticed something was wrong. Kyle's eyes were dull, his body completely unmoving except for the steady rise and fall of his rattling chest. "Kyle?" He touched his shoulder, giving it a squeeze and then a gentle shake. Still no response. It were as though he were only there in physical form, his brain switched off. It was disconcerting to see; Kenny wanted him to snap out of it. He made them each a cup of coffee, setting Kyle's down on the coffee table in his reach, and tried to bring him back again. His eyes travelled to a mark below his friend's collarbone, and he cautiously reached out to pull his shirt down further.  _Blaze_ was tattooed there, a number, and two vertical lines. Kenny remembered, with a jolt, how the woman who had first taken him to Kyle's room back in Brooklyn had referred to him as Blaze. "Kyle?" He tried again, and then "Blaze?". He loathed to use the name his captors had given him, but it did the trick. The redhead blinked suddenly, the film coating his eyes receding slightly. He looked confused, lost somewhere in his own mind.

"Blaze." He repeated softly.

"No,  _Kyle_." Kenny insisted. "You're Kyle. Remember?" But Kyle was slipping away again. A sudden knock at the door startled Kenny. Stan was there, out of breath, face shining with sweat.

"Hey dude," He panted, leaning against the door frame. "I ditched. Couldn't face school today. Is Kyle awake?" Kenny stood back to let him in.

"Uh, he's  _kinda_ awake. See for yourself." The redhead remained where he'd been left, still staring avidly at something neither Stan nor Kenny could see.

"Kyle? How long has he been like this?"

"I don't know, I only just woke up. Hey, look at this." He pointed out the tattoo on Kyle's chest.

"Blaze? What does that mean?" The name made him stir again, pulling him further through the fog than it had before.

"Blaze." Said Kenny, in his firmest voice. "Come back, dude." All at once, Kyle's eyes came alive again. His hands gripped the edges of the couch, and he suddenly succumbed to a coughing fit. When he'd recovered, he looked taken aback to find Stan and Kenny standing in front of him.

"Oh. Sorry, did you say something?"

"It doesn't matter." Stan was eyeing him warily. "I actually came over to ask you something, Ky." Stan reached into the pocket of his blue jacket, carefully pulling out a folded piece of paper. "I remembered this last night when I couldn't sleep." He passed it to Kyle, who stared at it.

"This- you kept it?" A grin spread over Stan's face.

"Of course! I  _knew_ it was from you. No one else believed me, but who else would it have come from?" It was the drawing of two silhouettes playing their guitars. Kyle wished he had the strength to tell Stan just how much it meant to him that he'd kept it safe all these years.

"I sent it to you the night before I was taken to Brooklyn. At the time I thought you still hated me, but it felt like I  _had_ to put it in the mail. Haven't really thought about it since, to be honest. A lot happened after that night." Stan and Kenny waited in the hope that more would follow, but Kyle had fallen silent again. Kenny changed tack.

"Do you like drawing? You're very good at it." When Kyle looked up again, there was something about his features that looked decidedly more human. There was a hint of interest in his eyes, a note of relief that told them both that  _this_ was something he liked to talk about.

"I love it. I draw a lot, especially when I can't sleep." He felt down the side of the couch, and pulled out his little sketchbook, holding it out to Stan. They flicked through the pages, admiring the various sketches. Many of them were recognisable as landmarks or scenery around South Park; Stark's Pond, the Freemont Bridge, rows of snow-tipped trees that stretched towards the border. They stopped at a particularly detailed drawing, hills rolling like ocean waves in a patchwork of green. In the distance were a little flock of sheep and a dog rounding them up, and a tiny cottage sat further on with a coil of smoke rising from the chimney.

"Where's this? It's beautiful." Stan asked, holding up the book.

"Ireland. I'd like to go there one day, draw it for real." Kyle said without thinking. Then he blushed and sat back again, looking uncomfortable. Kenny decided to avert the conversation.

"Breakfast, I think!" He clapped his hands together, forcing the brightest smile he could muster. "Think I'll make pancakes. Will you eat them Kyle, or do you want something else?" Kyle was already shaking his head.

"I'm okay, thanks. Not hungry." There was a pause.

"You need to eat dude. You haven't had much since we left Brooklyn." Kyle said nothing. He wanted to tell them that for at least eighteen months he'd only eaten once a day, and that the thought of consuming anything with too much flavour made him want to puke; but he'd grown so used to keeping his tongue that the words were impossible to say. Kenny didn't push it, but he made another plate of toast in case he changed his mind. Stan joined him in the kitchen once Kyle had gone to the bathroom, leaning against the countertop and running a hand through his already-dishevelled hair.

"How do you think he's doing?" He asked anxiously in a hushed whisper. Kenny didn't answer for a few seconds, carefully adding milk and butter to his pancake batter.

"I thought he'd be worse, to be honest. He's not eating a whole lot, he's clearly sick, and I don't think he slept for long; but he's not completely," He paused, wrinkling his nose up as he searched for the right word. "Broken? I don't know. He doesn't seem crazy emotional."

"I guess that might come later." Stan passed Kenny a frying pan. "We had a couple of psych classes about trauma a few months back. I remember the teacher saying something about how the brain can shut itself down when it's under a lot of stress, and when you feel safe again all the emotions come out." He pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing that he'd paid more attention.

"I guess that makes sense." They both fell silent as another round of coughing reached their ears. "I still think he should see a doctor though."

Kyle had draped a towel over the bathroom mirror. It had been a long time since he'd last seen his reflection, but now he was presented with the opportunity he found that he hated what he saw. He was nothing like how he imagined himself to be; all skin and bones and bruises and the inescapable stain that marks a person who's been through a lot. He did, however, like being able to wash himself whenever he wanted. The freedom to use the bathroom at any time felt strange, and somehow very wrong, but having a shower made him feel like less of an object. The hot water stung his fragile skin, an oddly freeing sensation, but it made him cough a lot too. He'd had chest infections before, but this one made his chest ache with every breath he took, and it seemed to have gotten worse overnight. Still numb to being free, he had spent most of the night sitting rigidly upright, watching the door. He was certain that they would be looking for him. The Slasher's menacing face was all he could see when he closed his eyes, the rippling muscles tensed and ready to rip Kyle limb from limb. He wasn't sure how far the grip of his captors extended, but he got the feeling that, to them, protecting the business was paramount. Kyle didn't dare tell Stan or Kenny anything much about what had happened to him. They'd both promised that they wouldn't call the cops, but he knew there must be a limit, an unseen boundary that would make them all the more insistent that Kyle should report it. It was hard not to think of the other young men and women he'd left behind in Brooklyn, of Storm and the other kids who worked for Scorpion, still trapped in the relentless cycle that would ultimately see them to their graves. He felt guilty, both for having escaped when they couldn't, and for being too scared to help them. He'd considered leaving an anonymous tip-off, but that could put them all in danger, and he couldn't live with himself if someone was killed as a result. It was an impossible situation, and he couldn't even talk to his friends about it.

* * *

 

Kenny was starting to panic. Kyle, whose body was convulsing as he choked and spluttered, went between a hot flush that reddened his pasty skin to shivering uncontrollably within minutes. They were sitting in the clinic on hard plastic chairs, waiting for their number to be called, while Stan was parking his car. It had been a fight to get Kyle to go, but his temperature had skyrocketed suddenly and they were both worried that he was getting grievously sick. He'd been too weak to walk unaided, and Stan had been one choking fit away from bodily picking him up and rushing straight to the ED at Hell's Pass. Kenny had ended up talking them both down, convincing Stan that the clinic would do, convincing Kyle that he  _had_ to go.

"Want us to come in with you?" He asked, once the coughing fit had subsided. Kyle shrugged, trying to recapture his breath. Kenny took it to mean yes. Stan joined them, panting slightly, and took the seat on Kyle's other side.

"Least it's not too busy. Shouldn't have to wait too long." He said, looking around at the other patients. Thankfully, and to Kyle's immense relief, they were all strangers.  
When their number was called, Kenny helped to hoist the redhead up, supporting him gently as he stumbled along. The doctor that greeted them at his office door looked tired, but smiled warmly at the three as he stood aside to let them pass.

"Hello, boys. I'm Dr. Swift." His gaze remained affable as he sat on the edge of his desk. "You don't look so well, son. What seems to be the problem?" Kyle had gone silent again, shaking piteously in his chair.

"Uh, it' Kyle's chest. He can't stop coughing, and his breathing doesn't sound right." Stan said uncertainly, glancing between his friends and the doctor.

"Alright. Can I take a listen, Kyle?" He nodded his ascent, and Dr. Swift pulled his stethoscope from where it looped around his neck and breathed on the diaphragm to warm it. He didn't comment on the bruises decorating the boy's ribcage, but his eyes roamed over them, his expression growing steadily more serious. When he asked if he could listen to his back, Kyle froze, looking frightened.

"Do you want us to leave?" Stan whispered, but he shook his head and allowed them to help him lean forward. It was a shock for all three to see the marks that scarred his skin, the pale ridges that spoke a thousand words. Kenny had turned white, Stan his signature shade of green. Still, the doctor said nothing. They were all grateful for his tact, but they sensed that it wouldn't be long before he mentioned it.

"I'm confident that you have a bacterial chest infection; but I would like you to have a chest x-ray and a blood test. We have both facilities on site, and I expect you'd rather have them done now than come back another day, hm? The radiographer has gone home for the night, but I have sufficient orthopaedic knowledge."

Doctor Swift had forty-two books on his shelves. Kyle had just finished counting them when he returned, and sat heavily behind his desk.

"It's as I thought. You have bronchopneumonia. You'll need antibiotics, but it should clear up in a few weeks." He paused, his aspect grave. "Before I studied medicine, I trained as a doctor in forensic anthropology. Do you know what that means?" All three boys stared back at him with blank expressions. "I studied human remains in various stages of advanced decomposition, concentrating on the bones to find cause-of-death. Looking at your x-rays," He produced a sheet of film from the file on his desk, and attached it to the illuminator behind him. "I have some difficult questions." Kyle shifted uneasily. He could feel the weight of their combined stares boring into his skin. "Bones tell stories, son. Do you see these callouses? They show remodelling, where you've had previous fractures and breaks that have healed, or are in the process of healing. These kinds of injuries are usually indicative of a person who has either been the victim of long-standing abuse, or someone who has been repeatedly tortured over a period of time. However, these injuries only started occurring over the past three to four years. Am I correct in believing that something happened to you a few years ago? Something in your life changed?" Kyle took a deep breath, eyes watering as he suppressed a cough.

"Yes." He was very quiet, but it was the first word he'd spoken since they'd arrived at the clinic. "Something changed."

"Are you still in danger of harm?"  _Yes._

"No." He didn't want the doctor to think he was paranoid.

"Anything you say to me is bound by doctor-patient confidentiality. I won't divulge any of this to the authorities, so long as you are no longer in any danger. With this in mind; is there anything you feel able to tell me? I'd like to help." Kyle felt himself growing hot. He stared nervously at his hands, clenching his fingers until his knuckles were white.

"Can I tell him, Ky?" Stan asked gently. He nodded, still refusing to look at any of them. "Kyle went missing a few years ago after he was wrongly accused of a crime- he was cleared a while back. Last week, Kenny-" He gestured to the blonde. "He was in Brooklyn, and he found Kyle by accident. He was, uh," Stan looked awkwardly away, pinching his nose.

"Being used for sex." Kenny finished. Kyle flinched at the words. "He said he couldn't leave, so I called Stan and we had to kinda smuggle him outta there. He'd been beaten by the people that kept him there. Ky hasn't really said nothing about what he's been through, but he doesn't eat or sleep much and he does this thing- is it okay if I talk about it?" No reply came, but he continued anyway. "He does this thing where he kinda zones out. His eyes are open but he doesn't see, he barely seems to hear us when we talk to him, he just goes into his own world." The doctor was nodding thoughtfully.

"I see. Is this something you've done for a while, Kyle? Does it help you to cope?" Kyle looked up now, reassured that Dr. Swift understood it for what it was- a coping mechanism. "In times of immense stress, a mental process called dissociation can occur. It's a way of disconnecting from feelings, memories, thoughts; your whole identity even. It might be a sign of mental illness brought on by trauma, but you will need to be seen and assessed a psychologist or psychiatrist to receive the help you need. You don't need to see anyone until you feel ready, but I know a wonderful doctor who specialises in this field. I will give you her card before you go. In the meantime, when Kyle dissociates, try giving him something tactile to hold- a pet, a blanket, even a stuffed animal. Talk to him as you would normally, maybe read to him. You might also try to eliminate overstimulation by dimming the lights and keep sound to a minimum. I'll also prescribe some sedatives to help you sleep. If I may, I'd like to ask what you have been eating for the past few years?" Kyle hadn't expected that question.

"Not much. Plain foods, very rarely anything with any nutritional value. I feel like I'd be sick if I ate too much at once." Dr. Swift nodded again, stroking his clean-shaven chin.

"You probably would be. What I'd recommend is that you first focus on increasing the  _amount_ of food you eat. Just try to have a couple of bites more than you usually would, and then when you're having decent-sized portions, you can start to increase the variety of the food. Stick to bland food for now, or your body might not cope with the sudden change to your diet. I'll give you some vitamins too, to help with deficiency. Your blood-work will tell us more. I'll also have it tested for sexually transmitted infections, although you might have to come back to the clinic for complete testing." It was a lot to take in. Even Stan and Kenny looked bewildered, although they also felt relieved that they were moving in the right direction. Dr. Swift looked at his watch. The appointment had run over by a mile, but the kind man didn't look too concerned. "I'm not going to bill you, son. Quite frankly, I feel you have enough to contend with. My door is open to you at any time, day or night. And to you boys as well," He added, looking at Stan and Kenny with a warm smile. "In case you need anything." As they stood to leave, Kyle made himself move towards the doctor. He took a deep breath, and grabbed the man's hand, grasping it between his own and forcing himself to look straight into his eyes.

"Thank you." He said simply. He had no words to express his gratitude. Dr. Swift had been the first stranger to truly give a crap about him since Dana, and nothing he could say would ever communicate how it made him feel.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for how late this chapter is. Life has been hectic. Thanks for reading and all the kind words!

**Chapter Nine**

_I know you're feeling alone_

_Caught out at sea,_

_The chains at your feet, heavier_

_Now they want the keys to your home_

_And they claw at your feet_

_I think its curtains for me_

* * *

The sedatives made him feel oddly fuzzy. His movements were sluggish, his brain lethargic, and he felt more exhausted than he had before he'd started taking them. The pharmacist had assured Stan that this was normal, and that the sleep Kyle was now getting would help him to recover more quickly. He didn't mind feeling hazy, but he was constantly afraid that he wouldn't wake up if someone tracked him down and tried to break into the apartment. Stan had installed an extra lock to the door, and all the windows were secure, which had helped to allay his fears some. He was very rarely left alone. Kenny stayed home during the day, and after school Stan came round to stay with him while Kenny worked. They played cards, watched TV, and right before Kenny was due home, Stan would warm some milk and give it to Kyle along with his bedtime pills. He had insisted that he didn't need taking care of, that they could go about their normal lives, but his friends weren't having any of it.

"Please, Kyle. We  _owe_ you this much." Stan had insisted, and he'd stopped protesting after that. He let the two of them fuss around him, all the while feeling that they needed it more than he did. By the time Kenny arrived home, he was usually close to sleep.  
He was starting to eat a little more. Kenny was used to cooking with bold flavours, but he tried hard to keep their food mild. He made mashed potato, freshly baked bread, porridge with chunks of apple, and never said a word when the bowls came back only half-empty.  
Both of them were giving up an awful lot to spend all their time with Kyle. Although neither of them mentioned anything, he knew he had well and truly fucked up their lives. Stan often received text messages, presumably from Wendy, that made him furrow his brow in exasperation and give a little sigh. Kenny never went anywhere except to the store for their weekly groceries. Their social lives had suffered considerably, but neither seemed too bothered by it. Kyle was the only one who felt troubled and guilty.  
When he'd come back to South Park, he'd expected his faraway moments -or dissociation, as Dr. Swift had referred to it- to reduce, but if anything, they actually increased. He was still having a lot of nightmares, and quite often, in the early hours of the morning when he couldn't face sleeping anymore, he'd start to slip. Kenny would often wake up in the morning to find him staring into space with glassy eyes. Both his friends had different ways of dealing with it. Kenny would wrap him in a blanket and read to him from books they'd read in their childhood. They were almost halfway through the first Harry Potter. Stan tended to talk to him more, or played music from his phone, holding Kyle's hand when he dared. Neither were usually very tactile with him, because he still found it hard to cope with another person's touch. He also struggled with leaving the apartment, and could only be convinced to step outside the door if it was to see Dr. Swift, who was carefully monitoring his recovery. All but the worst of the bruises had faded now, the breaks healed. It was very odd not to hurt, as though something were missing.  
"Isn't it Kenny's birthday soon?" Kyle asked one evening, as Stan handed him a bowl of Raisin Bran.

"Not for another month. Yours is first, remember?" He chewed thoughtfully. It had been so long since his birthday had been acknowledged -let alone celebrated- that it had almost slipped his mind.

"Oh, yeah. I want to draw him something?"

"Huh?"

"Kenny, I want to draw him something." Stan was grinning at him.

"You always did care more about other people than yourself. Okay, what do you want to draw him? Maybe you could try painting?" Kyle thought about this for a moment.

"I don't have paints."

"I know. But as I just said, it's your birthday in a week. Would you like to paint?"

"Think so." The conversation was making Stan happy. Kyle still didn't talk much, but they'd found that art was a safe subject. "I could do a portrait of Ken and his little sister."

"He'd  _love_ that, Ky." The inflection made Kyle think suddenly of Storm, and how she'd told him that Scorpion would love him. They both turned at the sound of a key turning in the lock. "Speak of the devil. Hey, Ken."

"Hi Kenny." Kyle added. His eyes were brighter today than they had been in a long while. Kenny stopped in the doorway, grinning happily at his two friends.

"You two look chipper."

"We've been talking about birthdays, right Ky?" Stan winked at the redhead. "How come you're home so early?"

"The restaurant was dead, so my boss said I could go." Kenny hadn't confided Kyle's stay to anyone, but Carl seemed to sense that something was up, and was making special allowances. The blonde flopped between his friends on the couch, stretching and sighing dramatically. "So, what're we doing for your seventeenth, Ky? Painting the town red?" Kyle frowned, blinking for a moment before he realised that Kenny had been joking.

"Might have to skip that this year. We don't have to do anything."

"Ah, c'mon, we have to do  _something_! I'll make you a cake- and no, you don't have to eat it. You can just look at it. Do you want anything in particular?" Kyle shook his head, curls bouncing.

"We'll think of something." Stan said as he stood to take Kyle's cereal bowl through to the kitchen. He tried hard to keep his expression neutral when he saw that the whole lot had been eaten. Drawing attention to Kyle's differences wouldn't help any of them, he decided. "You want food, Ken?"

"Nah, I ate at work." For the next couple of hours they sat up chatting. Kyle's eyelids started to droop as the clock ticked towards midnight, and he fell asleep soon after. Stan and Kenny talked for a while, but both of their gazes were drawn to their friend. He didn't ever sleep peacefully; forever twitching and mumbling words that were mostly nonsensical. He often spoke the names of people that neither of them knew.  _Dana_  was often a word that escaped his lips,  _Storm, Ralph._  He talked about Scorpions sometimes, which was perhaps oddest of all. It was bad on this particular evening.

"I never know what to do when he's like this." Kenny admitted, propping cushions against Kyle's back to keep him from rolling right off the couch.

"Me neither," Stan sighed. "I don't know if there  _is_  anything. Does he wake you in the night?"

"Not often. Only a couple times since he started staying here. Don't think he even remembers it half the time, he just knows that he dreamed about something that made him hurt." As if on cue, Kyle's dream became more violent. His right arm came up to protect his head, his left wrapped around his abdomen, and he was  _screaming._ A slew of sentences that didn't make sense as he curled in on himself. Stan was on his feet, Kenny had dropped to the floor and was murmuring comforting words in Kyle's ear. As quickly as he had contracted, he sat bolt upright, sweaty and still yelling. He didn't seem to register his friends.

"Please, stop." He begged, and then "They're coming. They won't leave me." Stan and Kenny exchanged a look.

"Kyle, look at me. Look at Kenny. No one is coming, I promise. No one will hurt you again." Kenny was nodding his agreement nervously.

"It's us, dude. We won't touch you, okay?" The dream was starting to recede, reality taking its place. Kyle's breath hitched in his chest, but the voices were familiar. They weren't the throaty, grunting noises that his clients made as they reached climax, nor the harsh words the guards spoke. They were friendly. They were people who had never asked him for sex, had never left their invisible fingerprints whenever they touched him. He pushed desperately through the fog, fighting his way back to life. He reached out a hand, not sure whether he wanted to push them away or draw them closer. He opened his eyes. He'd brought himself back, that time.

* * *

It ended up being one of the birthdays that Kyle would remember forever. Not because he was inundated with gifts or well-wishers, but because of the two people who worked so hard to make it a manageable and yet enjoyable day. Kenny made him oatmeal with thinly sliced peach and apple for breakfast, and he and Stan clubbed together to buy him paints, canvases, and a few books. He'd already started reading one of them; a book of mythology that he found fascinating. Kenny made banana bread, and Kyle ate a few small mouthfuls. Later in the day, Kenny read the mythology book to him until he fell asleep. He was woken a while later when something very small and fluffy was placed gently on his lap. His fingers found a wriggling mass of fur, his ears picked up the snuffling noises. Still groggy, his eyelids felt heavy when he opened them. They instantly widened when he finally realised what he was holding: a tiny puppy, currently chewing on the end of his thumb. He looked questioningly at Stan and Kenny.

"He's a labradoodle." Kenny told him, barely able to contain his excitement. Kyle tilted his head on one side, still confused. "He's yours. Remember how Dr. Swift said that holding a pet could help?" Stan nudged the blonde with his elbow.

"We thought you could use another friend. Someone you can talk to if you don't feel like talking to me or this dumbass." For a moment, Kenny looked wounded, but then he burst into a fit of laughter. Stan followed shortly after. Kyle hadn't laughed in an eternity; but for the first time in years, he cracked a genuine smile of pure happiness. If he could cry, he would have.

He decided to name the dog Odin, after the god of death, war, the sky, wisdom and poetry. He'd particularly enjoyed the chapter of the mythology book about Odin, and it suited the puppy well. That night, once Stan and Kenny had crashed, Kyle fell asleep with the tiny bundle of black-and-white fluff curled up to his chest, and he didn't dream at all.

Having Odin made everyday life feel much more manageable, somehow. Being only nine weeks old, he and Kyle spent their days inside. He talked to the puppy a lot; especially when they were alone in the apartment. The two were inseparable.

"I miss having a dog." Stan admitted, sitting crossed-legged on the floor next to Kyle and ticking Odin's belly with his fingers. Kyle looked up at him.

"Sparky?" He remembered the mutt being elderly when he'd left South Park. Stan looked sad for a moment.

"He died a couple years ago." Kyle sat up straighter.

"I know nothing about your life." He felt guilty. All the time they'd spent together over the past few weeks, and he still knew very little about the person Stan had grown up to be.

"S'fine, dude." He said, shrugging unperturbedly. "You've had a lot going on." Kyle shook his head.

"No, I want to know. And Kenny." The blonde poked his head round the kitchen door at the sound of his name. "I want to know what's happened since I left." Kenny wiped his floury hands on his apron and sat on Kyle's other side, completing the circle.

"Uh, alright. I don't know where to start, though."

"At the beginning, dipshit." Kenny laughed, scooping Odin up for a cuddle.

"Fuck you, dumbass. Okay. I found it hard after you left. No-" His eyes were trained on the remorseful expression on Kyle's face. "It's not your fault. You absolutely cannot blame yourself for any of this; it was my fault more than anyone else's. I never deleted the text you sent me. It drove me insane every day. Those of us that had finally realised that you hadn't touched that little girl started up a search party. To be honest," He paused a moment, looking ashamed. "There weren't that many of us, so we didn't look as far as I wanted to. We tried Colorado, and then parts of Nebraska."

"I think I was in South Dakota first. Hitch-hiked." Stan nodded. Whenever Kyle offered information, there was always a hopeful pause in case he wanted to divulge more. He never did.

"Anyway, so after a few weeks, most people kinda gave up. We had no idea where you'd gone, it was like you'd disappeared into thin air. Your parents and Ike moved away soon after. I think they lost all hope in South Park, after everything that happened. I didn't deal with losing you too good. I drank a lot, kinda went back into my emo phase. Nearly killed myself, so my parents had me committed to a psych ward. I had to talk through all my stupid feelings and take pills, but none of it made me feel any less guilty. I think it was the straw that broke the camel's back- my parents divorced not long after I was released from the hospital. Dad left town. He comes to visit sometimes, but it's better when it's just me and mom. Shelly graduated and went to college down-state, and she doesn't come back much either. Mom and me got pretty close. Especially when Sparky died, and our family got even smaller." Kyle felt a pang of sadness for his friend. A few short weeks ago, he'd had an odd, vindictive feeling that Stan  _deserved_ to suffer. That had vaporized pretty quickly. Nobody here was a winner.

"Doesn't your mom miss having you home?" He asked.

"She works late a lot, so I don't think she's too bothered. I always used to spend a lot of time with Wendy anyway so I guess she's used to it by now."

"How is Wendy?" He shrugged again.

"Okay I think. Well, she's pissed at me at the moment. But I know she'd understand if she knew the reason. I still spend every lunch break and free period with her; so it's not like we never see each other." He tapped his chin with one finger, eyes high in their sockets as he thought. "That's pretty much it, I think." Kyle gave him a tiny smile, and turned to Kenny.

"Well, you know about me getting emancipated. Karen lives in a foster home, but it's  _way_ better than the one we were in before. The couple she lives with are awesome. They let her take horseback riding lessons, they help her with homework, she has a warm meal to come home to and a comfy bed to sleep in.  _And_ I can go and see her whenever he want." Kyle could almost sense his happiness.

"What about Kevin?" Kenny's face clouded.

"Jail. Like we didn't see that one coming. Yeah, he got in with some drug dealers, but wasn't smart enough to get himself out of the hole they'd dug for him. He'll prob'ly do five years."

"Do you ever see your parents now?"

"My mom sometimes. If she's sober enough. Not dad though. He's out of my life for good. Mom's happy for me though, I think. Guess she never expected any of us to do anything special with our lives, so it makes her happy that things are turning out different- at least for two of us. Kevin's a lost cause now." The three of them sat in silence for a few minutes. Odin tumbled around between them, and nudged his way under Kyle's sweatshirt. He stroked the soft fur absent-mindedly. His mind was waging a war against himself; Blaze pleading for him to be quiet, Old Kyle wanting to scream from the rooftops. His friends had shared with him, and he wanted to do the same, but so much of the life he had lived was enveloped in shame. Memories were flitting past now, chaotic and disjointed.

"When I was still living on the streets," He began, heart pounding, breath constricting. "I held out as long as I could before I started," He took a deep breath. "Working. It's an impossible choice. Having no food, being cold  _all_ the time, sleeping under cardboard boxes- it's rough. If I worked in the night, the days were so much easier to cope with."

"Kyle, you don't have to justify yourself to us." Kyle wouldn't look at either of them. He continued to stroke Odin, trying to pretend that he was only talking to the puppy.

"When did you start working for someone else?" Kenny asked gently.

"This girl tracked me down. The name they gave her was Storm. She said that when you start working, they give you a new name and you don't  _ever_ use the old one. She started calling me Blaze right from when I first met her, saying that life would be way better if I was working for someone else. Safer." He gave a derisive snort. "I was working some guy's turf, so my only options were to work for him, or risk being murdered by one of his henchmen. I didn't want to die, so I went with her. Sometimes I wonder how she's doing- if she's still alive, even."

"Why did she tell you it would be so much better if it wasn't?" Stan asked.

"No idea. I think that she probably got treated better for recruiting new bodies for her boss. She never seemed to have to work as much as the rest of us; she spent most days off her face."

"Did you ever do drugs?" When Kyle finally looked up at Stan, his brow was raised, as though the answer were obvious.

"We all did. Alcohol and drugs made it all just-about bearable. I only took them when I had to, though." He nearly added that Dana had asked him not to use in the daytime, but he wasn't ready for them to know about her yet. She was so precious to his memory that it seemed wrong to spill her essence, even to his closest friends. He fell silent again after that. They could all sense that the moment for confiding had now passed. Kyle stood, gently placing Odin in Kenny's outstretched arms, and went to take a shower. He still felt the need to wash himself several times a day, and talking to Stan and Kenny about his experiences had made him feel dirty again.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Chapter Ten**

_Master of puppets I'm pulling your strings_   
_Twisting your mind and smashing your dreams_   
_Blinded by me, you can't see a thing_   
_Just call my name, 'cause I'll hear you scream_

* * *

He felt as though the fog was lifting. It had been several weeks since he'd escaped Brooklyn, and no one had come for him yet. The panic, always firmly lodged in his amygdala, had receded slightly. In its place came a terrible, overwhelming sadness. He felt sad for the child who had allowed himself to be defiled, he felt sad for the teenager who had spent years of his life on his knees in deplorable situations, he felt sad for the future that he could never envision because it felt too much of a risk to hope for anything at all.

Some days, he didn't speak a single word, and the thought of food made him feel sick to his stomach, and Kenny or Stan had to beg him to take small sips of water so he wouldn't dehydrate. He felt bad for making them worry, too. He just couldn't seem to stop himself. He'd spend hours trapped somewhere between reality and unconsciousness, unable to claw himself back, or perhaps unwilling. Even Odin, getting bigger by the day, couldn't bring him back. He showered for an hour at a time, until Kenny would pound on the door, terrified that he'd collapsed. Worst of all was the way they talked about him when they thought he couldn't hear. One day, he sat against the bathroom wall, cheek resting against the cool surface, straining to hear their low voices.

"Did he eat today?" Stan asked, passing a cold beer to Kenny as he took the seat next to him.

"Nope. I tried, but he didn't want anything. He was doing so well gaining the weight back, but if he carries on like this it'll all drop back off again." Stan sighed, miserable.

"Did we expect too much of him?" He wondered aloud. In the bathroom, Kyle's cheeks flushed pink.

"Yeah, probably. Kyle's been through too much for it all to just go away. It's not like in the movies, where someone goes through something traumatic but forgets it all to ride off into the sunset with their rescuer." It occurred to Stan that Kenny was probably speaking from experience, the years of being treated like shit by his parents talking for him.

"What should we do? Take him back to that doctor? He seemed to get it." Kenny took a sip of his beer, deep in thought.

"I asked him if he wanted to speak to Dr. Swift again, but he didn't answer. Maybe you could try. Or see if he'll call that therapist? I think the card is at the back of Ky's sketchbook." Kyle tensed at the thought of them looking through his book. He hadn't felt like drawing much recently, but his latest creations had been darker than usual. When he'd been working and needed a distraction, he'd drawn pretty things- scenery, nature, places he'd thought as of home. Now he  _was_ home, and he felt like drawing hollow faces with blackened skin and empty eye-sockets. He couldn't explain why.

"I don't know if I wanna look in there, dude. It seems private." His shoulders relaxed slightly. Odin, who had been curled up on the bathmat, stretched and yawned, and padded over to his companion. Kyle gave him the smallest of smiles, and reached out to run a hand through the dog's curly fur. He concentrated hard on staying present in the moment, letting his fingers explore the soft hair, feel the warmth, the tickle of the tongue that licked his thumb.

"No, you're right. But we need to do something. I'm worried we'll lose him again."

"What do you mean? He's not going anywhere." Kenny gave an impatient sigh.

"Not literally, retard. The only time he goes outside is to smoke on the balcony; don't think he'll be running away any time soon. Nah, I meant mentally. I'm worried he'll go too far into himself and just never come back one day." Stan had to suppress a smile.

"Woah. Deep." Kenny finally cracked a grin.

"I know, right? Regular psychology genius over here." Kyle could hear the smile in his tone. It seemed like a good time to interrupt, so he scooped up a wriggling Odin and unlocked the bathroom door. They both looked up at him as he slipped into an armchair, the concern evident on both their faces. For a strange moment, he  _hated_  both of them. He loathed that they saw him at his most vulnerable of moments, abhorred that they felt they had to take care of him as though he were a small child. He was more streetwise than either of them. He had experienced more of life and death and suffering than they had or likely ever would, and yet he'd also been denied the opportunity to learn and grow as they had. Kyle shook himself mentally. He wasn't supposed to hate them, he was supposed to be thankful to them. He thought about how they never forced him into anything, how they were so unfalteringly calm and patient when he was being a stubborn ass. As quickly as the hatred had come, the love welled up inside him. Love wasn't something he'd felt in recent years. It had been a hollow memory.  
He couldn't say what he would be like tomorrow, but for tonight, he would make an effort. He gave them his customer smile, the one that didn't reach his eyes. He knew they'd see through it, but hoped that they'd appreciate the gesture.

"Good shower?" Stan asked, knowing full well that it was his fourth of the day. Kyle nodded, accepting the beer Kenny had fetched for him.

"Yeah, thanks." He bit his lip for a moment, trying to summon a brighter tone. "What's for dinner? Do you need help cooking?" Kenny's face broke into a bright grin before he could stop himself.

"What do you feel like?" Kyle frowned in concentration, but he couldn't think. It was hard to be enthusiastic when he'd prefer not to eat at all. Kenny noticed the hesitation.

"Okay, how about risotto? You could have steamed vegetables in yours, and I've got some chicken in the refrigerator." He turned to Stan. "Chicken and chorizo for us, yeah?"

"Awesome, thanks dude. You want my help too?"

All three ended up cramming in Kenny's small kitchen. In truth, the risotto didn't need much work; but keeping Kyle distracted meant that he wasn't dissociating. He ate a quarter of the small portion Kenny served him, and then turned a nasty shade of green. Stan watched him cautiously.

"Dude, are you gonna-" The sentence went unfinished as Kyle suddenly hurtled back into the bathroom, and was violently sick.

"Don't you fuckin' dare," Kenny warned Stan, whose skin tone was now replicating Kyle's. He'd never been too good with the sound of someone else puking. "Go out on the balcony until it passes- I'm not cleaning up after you too." Stan nodded, and staggered away as Kenny fetched a glass of water. He tapped on the bathroom door before he went in. Kyle was sitting between the toilet and the sink, head in hands, breathing erratically. "Here," Kenny passed him the glass. "Don't drink it too fast or you'll make yourself sick again." Kyle took it with trembling fingers. His eyes were rimmed with red circles from retching so hard, and his skin was now pallid.

"I'm sorry," He rasped, looking at Kenny with an edge of something that looked like fear. "I didn't mean to do that."

"What? Course you didn't, bud. I know that." He sat on the floor in front of his shivering friend. He unzipped his hoodie, shuffling forwards to drape it round Kyle's shoulders. Kenny noticed him flinch. He hadn't done that for a while. "What are you thinking? Can you tell me?"

"You don't want to know what I'm thinking." Kyle mumbled, arms wrapped tightly around his body. Stan, having composed himself, appeared at the doorway.

"Why don't you try us?" He too sat on the floor, and they watched Kyle.

"Please don't look at me," He whispered, feeling weak and exposed. Stan and Kenny glanced at each other.

"I have an idea. Are you good, or do you think you'll puke again?"

"I'm good."

"Awesome." Stan stood, and offered an arm out first to Kyle, and then Kenny. Kyle was very wobbly on his feet, so Stan walked with his arm outstretched, not touching but not too far away to catch him if he fell. He took his friends through to Kenny's bedroom, dimming the lights and turning on a lamp instead. "Ken, you sit there," He gestured to the bed with his free hand. "I'll sit  _there_. Kyle, if we sit with our backs to you, would it make you feel better?" Kyle thought about it for a moment, looking warily back at him, but nodded. So they sat with their backs to one another, in silence, as Kyle gently rocked with Odin in his lap. Little by little, when it was clear that Stan and Kenny weren't going to make the first move if he didn't want them to, he allowed himself to shift further back, until he was eventually leaning shoulder-to-shoulder against his friends. He closed his green eyes, exhausted.

"You wanted to know what I was thinking." The only noise that filled the air between them were the quiet snuffling sounds coming from the puppy. "I was thinking that maybe I'm not ready for risotto." Stan and Kenny burst out laughing. It hadn't been particularly funny, but it was one of those moments that gave them hope, told them that Kyle wasn't lost to them- not yet, at least.

"Okay, maybe another time then." Kenny chuckled. "Anything else, other than our culinary failings?" The silence grew again, and when Kyle spoke once more, his voice had become monotone and quiet.

"I'm so tired," He told them, eyes still shut. "I don't know how I should feel. I know I should be happy that I'm not  _there_  anymore, but part of me feels like I am. I still feel so trapped and isolated. I guess 'cause I'm not around those people now, it feels like I'm more different than I already was. You guys are nothing like me. You don't wake up shouting, or feel sick after eating, or feel so  _gross_ that you wish you could wash the inside of yourself as well as outside." He took a deep, shaking breath. "It's an awful thing to say, and I know I should be hanging on to life with everything I have, but some days I wish I wasn't here anymore. I don't want to kill myself, I just want to- stop  _being_ , I guess. 'Cause even when I'm asleep I don't escape. And I feel shit because I'm ruining your lives as well as my own, and I feel shit because of all the people I left behind to suffer because I was too  _chicken-shit_ to call the cops, and I feel shit because some part of me feels like I deserved everything I got." His tone was rising with every word he spoke, but he couldn't stop himself now. "Do you remember the day everyone found out I'd been released on bail?" They remembered, both of them, but neither could speak for the tears that stung their eyes and the tightness in their throats. Kyle continued regardless. "They all came for me, all the people I thought were my friends. Token, Tweek, Craig, Clyde,  _Cartman._  Hell, even Bebe and Heidi were there. Every time they punched me or kicked me, I kept thinking ' _this is the worst day of my life_ ', over and over again, but it  _wasn't_. Not by far. I've had so many of them. And I'm so,  _so_ tired." Kyle didn't know why, but he was feeling a little better. He could tell that Kenny was crying because of the way his shoulders were shaking, and Stan's head was bowed the way it always did when he got upset. He let out a deep breath, amazed and a little apalled at himself. He'd told them so much, his body pressed against theirs the whole time. Tentatively, he reached for their hands, and curled his fingers around their own. The touch of someone who cared about him wasn't so bad, he decided.

"I think I'd have killed myself by now, if I was you." Stan admitted after a while. "You're stronger than I'll ever be, Ky." Kyle shook his head.

"I've spent years being terrified of dying. It's not bravery, it's cowardice."

"No, he's right." Kenny put in. "You're so fucking strong to still be here today. You might be hanging on by your fingertips, but you're doing it. You're surviving."

"Surviving isn't a life. It's just existing."

"I know, I know that's how you feel now. But at some point, it will be a life again. You probably don't believe me; I don't blame you. But it  _will_ happen." This time, Kyle nodded consciously.

They stayed sitting in a circle until Kyle fell asleep, head resting on Kenny's shoulder. Stan gently twisted away, and supported Kyle as Kenny did the same. They laid him on the bed, and covered him and Odin with a blanket before they retreated. Back in the living room, they both flopped heavily on the couch. Neither said anything for a while, they just sat and thought, as though they were grieving.

"That was rough." Stan nodded his agreement, running a hand through his hair. "What gave you the idea for us to sit like that?"

"We read a case study in psychology class about a kid who'd been abused. Apparently she didn't feel comfortable when people looked at her, and only ever disclosed what she'd been through in the car or something, when no one could see her face. Kyle still won't look at himself in the mirror, so I figured maybe it was the same for him." Kenny gave a low whistle.

"It was genius, dude. Good thinking."

"I'm just glad he felt like he could talk to us. He's been so distant lately, I'm amazed he said anything at all."

"I know. He's so up and down at the moment. Guess it's to be expected, but I have no idea how to deal with it. I'm always worried that I'll do something that'll make him worse."

"Me too, buddy. Me too."

* * *

It was another slow night at the restaurant. Kenny stood a little way from the building, absent-mindedly smoking, his mind back at the apartment with Kyle and Stan.

"Ken! Hey, dude!" The voice made him jump. He swivelled on the spot, turning to face some of his old school friends.

"Oh, hey guys." Craig and Tweek were holding hands, both of them smiling, and Clyde bounced up to clap him on the shoulder.

"How you doing, dude? Haven't seen you in forever!" Kenny did his best to relax his features in a neutral expression.

"I'm good! Just been working, y'know. Are you here for food?"

"Yep." Craig replied, letting go of Tweek to shake Kenny's hand. "Token's meeting us here too. We're going to his after for a few drinks 'cause his folks are out of town for the weekend. You wanna come?" Kenny pretended to consider.

"Nah, thanks dude. Tonight's not a good time for me."

"T-that's what Stan said," Tweek told him, twitching slightly. His ticks had definitely gotten better, Kenny noticed. Craig was having a good effect on him.

"Oh, did he?" Craig's eyes had narrowed.

"What's going on with Stan? I spoke to Bebe earlier, and she said Wendy thinks he's having an affair. Is he?" Kenny burst out laughing.

"Who,  _Stan_? Yeah right. He's probably just busy. How's school?" He asked, trying to avert the conversation. Craig was still watching him suspiciously.

"Are you two fucking? 'Cause it kinda sounds like you're fucking." Kenny winked at him.

"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies." He laughed. Then, realising that this would probably get back to Wendy, "Course not. I haven't seen him in forever, or Cartman. How's he?"

"Fat and unpleasant." Clyde replied sardonically. "Still torturing Butters, as usual. We invited both of them to Token's. Sure you don't wanna come?"

"It's tempting, but I'm exhausted. Think I'll just crash when I'm done with work." It was only partly a lie- he  _was_ tired. The night before had been a difficult one; Kyle had woken every couple of hours with his nightmares. Stan had stayed the night, but neither of them could calm him down as he grew increasingly hysterical, insisting that someone was 'coming for them'. Clyde shrugged, and gave him a little wave as they continued into the restaurant. Kenny would have to tell Stan to call his girlfriend when he got home, or things could become more complicated.

* * *

Kyle was jumpy. His sleep had been restless and broken the previous evening, his defences standing strong once again after the lapse which had laid himself bare to Stan and Kenny.

Stan was sitting with him now, pretending to watch TV, but actually watching Kyle out of the corner of his eye. Kenny's land-line had started ringing a few minutes before, and Kyle had practically fallen out of his chair in fright. Stan had answered, but there had been no reply on the other end of the line.

"Must have been a wrong number," Stan told him. "Nothing to worry about." Kyle  _had_ worried. He was still worrying now, biting his nails to the quick, tugging at his hair, nibbling his lip. Stan was at a loss knowing what to do; even considering calling Kenny home from work. He'd already bolted the door and made sure all the windows were locked, and watched as Kyle had walked round and rechecked everything after. "Want one of your sleeping pills?" He asked uncertainly.

"No." Kyle responded instantly. He wasn't sure what he was afraid of. He had been certain that the fear was going away, but it was back with a vengeance that was choking him. Odin pushed his wet nose under his palm, aware of his owner's anxiety. Kyle's fingers closed automatically, scratching the puppy behind his ears.

"Okay," Stan sighed, rubbing his eyes wearily. "I'll make us both a drink, and then I'm going to read to you for a bit. What book are you and Kenny on now?" Kyle didn't answer, but he didn't argue either. Stan's tone hadn't been demanding as such, but it didn't invite debate. He let Stan make him a decaf coffee with plenty of milk for the protein, and made a vague effort to listen to him read The Hobbit.

Kyle still didn't want his pill when Kenny got home.

"You don't have to stay up." He insisted, repeatedly tapping his closed fist on his knee.

"It's okay, I'm too wired to sleep right now anyways." Kenny lied. Kyle didn't believe him, he could see in his friend's face that he was tired, in the sluggish way he held himself. He didn't want to be selfish or a burden, so when both of them took a seat either side of them, he had to force his eyes shut, and tried to fall asleep.

* * *

He was running. He slipped and skidded on the pastiche of wet autumn leaves beneath his bare feet, eyes stinging in the cold air, lungs burning as they hastily pumped air in and out. Behind, he could hear the heavy treads of another. And another. And another. He didn't know who was after him; the shapeless figures melted in and out of the dense shadows that whispered and laughed in cold resonance. The darkness roared at him with a terrible furor. They were catching up, he could sense them. He could taste their triumph, smell their arrogance. Kyle forced his legs onwards, rounded a corner, flew straight into the solid body of one of the pursuers as he cut him off from an alleyway that he could have sworn hadn't been there just a moment ago. They closed in on him, fingers reaching for his throat.

This time, Kyle woke with a deafening silence, still trying to claw at the hands that were choking him. Stan was snoring on one side of him, Kenny drooling on the other. He was glad he didn't wake them. They deserved to sleep, even if he couldn't.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Chapter Eleven**

_Don't say I'm out of touch_

_With this rampant chaos – your reality_

_I know well what lies beyond my sleeping refuge – the nightmare,_

_I built my own world to escape_

* * *

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Craig groaned under Clyde's weight as he boosted him up to the window.

"I'm just curious," Came the reply, as Clyde struggled to pull himself up the side of the building they had chosen. "Kenny and Stan are both acting really weird."

"Has it occurred to you," Craig groaned as he pulled himself up after his friend. "That maybe it's none of our fucking business?" He was glad he'd left Tweek at the coffee shop, doubting his boyfriend would have been so understanding of Clyde's absurd plan. Clyde just shrugged impassively.

"Okay, I'm bored. So sue me." They sat on the roof together, smoking and drinking the beer that Craig had smuggled out of his house in his coat pockets. "Ken's been acting strange ever since we went to Brooklyn." Clyde mused, crushing his can under his foot. Craig grunted in reply as they both watched the apartment building over the block. An hour passed before there was any side of life from Kenny's place. The blonde himself stepped out onto his balcony, lighting a cigarette and passing his pack to another person.

"Does Stan smoke?" Craig asked, although he wasn't sure that he cared.

"Not at school. So who else is up there with him?" They got their answer as Kenny stepped to the side. A shock of red hair, harsh against the figure's pale skin.

"Dude," Clyde breathed, his exhalation misting in the freezing air. "Is that Kyle Broflovski?" Okay, so  _that_ was interesting. Craig stood, squinting into the distance.

"I don't know, man. It's hard to tell."

"It  _is_! It has to be! Why didn't they tell us he's back? I wanna go see him!" Craig grasped him by the arm, turning to look Clyde squarely in the eyes.

"I told you before, it's none of our business. There must be a reason why they haven't said anything, right? And we were complete dicks to Broflovski before he went missing; why would he want to see us?" That gave Clyde pause for thought. His stomach twisted uncomfortably as he thought of the way they had attacked Kyle shortly before he'd run away, only to find out that he'd been wrongly accused and innocent the whole time. Craig could see the guilt in his expression, and let go of his arm. "Exactly. Let's just go home and forget we ever saw this." They started to scale back down the building. Clyde looked towards the apartment block again as they turned to leave, catching a final glimpse of Kyle as he slipped back through the balcony door.

* * *

Kenny felt a thousand times better. He and Stan's night had gone undisturbed, and although he ached from sleeping crookedly on the couch, he'd gotten more rest than he had in a long time. Kyle still looked exhausted.

"How did you sleep?" He asked as they stood smoking on the balcony. Kyle gave him a small smile, his eyes were watering in tiredness.

"Good, thanks." He lied, averting his gaze. Kenny didn't believe him, but he wouldn't press Kyle for information he was unwilling to give.

"Odin has his vaccinations today, remember?" The redhead nodded, still staring at the ground. "Stan said he doesn't mind taking him in his car before he heads to football practise."

"I want to go." Kyle said quietly, exhaling a breath of smoke. "He'll be scared." Kenny was surprised; Kyle  _hated_ having to leave the apartment, even for a doctors appointment.

"Are you sure, buddy?"

"Yes."

Kyle was hypervigilant from the moment they stepped over the threshold of the apartment, constantly looking around and jumping at every little sound. He held Odin to his chest, a warm bundle to give him strength, as he and Kenny met Stan in the parking lot. Stan looked amazed to see Kyle there, but Kenny gestured frantically behind his back, trying to tell him not to say anything about it. He was worried that the slightest doubt would send their friend running back to the confines of the apartment, and Kenny was starting to feel uneasy about his lack of trust in the outside world.

"Okay?" Stan asked simply. They both nodded, Kyle's eyes flitting about wildly.

The car journey was uneventful, as was their appointment with the vet. Kyle had flinched when she'd injected Odin, but the puppy hadn't seemed overtly bothered by the needle, seeming to sense his owner's stress was superfluous. The car journey home went smoothly too, and by the time they got back to the apartment, Kyle seemed far more relaxed than he had done when they'd left.  
He spent the afternoon drawing and listening to Kenny reading to him until he fell asleep, pencil still in hand, Odin curled next to him on the couch. Kenny covered both of them with a blanket, smiling at Kyle's vacant expression. They could always tell when a nightmare was beginning because of the way his brows knitted together, but he seemed at peace today.

"If anyone deserves a moment of peace, it's Kyle." He mumbled to himself, padding through to his bedroom to change for work. His eyes moved to the canvas hanging on his wall, the beautiful portrait Kyle had painted for him of himself and Karen for his seventeenth birthday. He had teared up when Kyle had shyly presented it to him, unable to express his thanks for how much it meant to him.

Kyle was still fast asleep when Stan slipped through the door, sweaty from football and delighted to find his friend asleep.

"How long's he been out?" He whispered to Kenny as he made them both coffee.

"Almost three hours. It's his personal best." Kenny joked, passing a cup to Stan. "No nightmares, no screaming, just blissful sleep. I was thinking; maybe when he wakes up it'd be a good time to suggest the idea of calling that shrink?" Stan grimaced into his coffee.

"Okay. But maybe I won't refer to her as a shrink. Don't think Ky would be overly receptive if I put it that way." Kenny held his hands up in admission.

"Yeah yeah, you're right." He downed the rest of his drink. "Alright, I'm off. Don't stay up past your bedtime." He smirked at Stan as he left. Sitting in an armchair, Stan flipped through one of his schoolbooks, looking for the chapter he needed for his English essay. Every so often, he glanced up at Kyle, but his friend slept soundly for another hour before he started to wake.

"Hey, dude." Stan said softly, watching Kyle rub his eyes and stretch. "You slept for a long time." Kyle stared groggily at him for a minute, absorbed by the confused feeling he often had when he first woke up.

"Did I?" He scratched behind Odin's ears as the puppy continued to snore quietly. Now the vestiges of sleep were dwindling, his head was starting to feel clearer than it had in a while. "Maybe afternoon naps are the way forward." Stan grinned at him, blue eyes twinkling in the dimly-lit room.

"Maybe. You hungry? Kenny left pasta." Kyle was about to shake his head, out of habit, but his stomach gave a pang.  _Was_ he hungry?

"I think so," He said, unsure. "I think I'm hungry." It was odd to Stan that he could never be certain what his body was telling him, but he didn't comment. Once Kyle had eaten, he decided it was time to broach the subject.

"Remember when we went to see Dr. Swift the first time? He gave you that card." Kyle stared blankly back. "For the psychiatrist. Do you think you're ready to talk to her?" He didn't  _feel_ ready, but then he rarely felt ready for anything at all.

"I don't know. How would I pay for it?" Stan hadn't considered this. "Maybe we can work something out. There must be some kind of procedure in place for people like you." Kyle shuddered, and Stan immediately felt guilty. "I didn't mean-"

"Yes you did," Kyle cut him off. "And it's okay. I know you didn't mean it in a bad way. I  _am_ different, I've said it before."

"So will you call?"

"Maybe."

"She might be able to help you stop dissociating."

"Hm." The conversation came to a halt. Kyle didn't voice his feelings, but he wasn't sure that he wanted to stop dissociating. He knew it unsettled Stan and Kenny, but for him they were brief periods of respite.

* * *

"Hey, it's Clyde." He stood with his cell caught between his shoulder and ear, lazily flicking through the pages of a textbook.

" _Hey, kid. What's up?_ "

"You know that place you sent me and my friend to? In Brooklyn?"

" _Yeah_?" Clyde paused, trying to phrase his next sentence tactfully.

"Is there something -uh-  _off_  about that place?" There was a moment of static on the other end of the line.

" _Why_?" His uncle sounded cagey.

"Oh, it's just-" Clyde sighed, wondering if he was making a mistake. "After I took my buddy there, something seemed to freak him out. He stayed in Brooklyn after I went home, even though we were sposed to ride back together. He's barely spoken to any of us since, and me and Craig saw his old friend Kyle with him. Y'know- the guy that disappeared years back?"

" _What does Kyle look like?_ " His uncle asked, his voice a little guarded. Clyde furrowed his brow. It seemed a weird question to ask.

"Uh, I didn't really get a good look at him when I saw him, but he's got red hair and green eyes." There was another pause.

" _Ah. That's odd. Maybe it wasn't something in Brooklyn that freaked your friend out; maybe he just got some bad news or something._ "

"Yeah, but Kenny would have said-" His uncle cut him off mid-sentence.

" _Anyway, it's been good talking to you, kiddo. I've gotta run, but I'll see you around._ " The line went dead, and Clyde stared at his cell.

"What?" He said to himself, utterly bewildered. "The fuck was that about?" He slipped the phone back in his pocket, and shrugged his jacket on. He'd agreed to visit Token after school and play video games, so he pushed the call to the back of his mind.

* * *

"Back already?" Kyle called, wiping the last few drops of water from the plate he'd been drying, and placing it neatly on the draining rack. "That was fast." Stan had gone to meet Kenny from work, planning on dropping by the Marsh residence on their way back for a few beers. He was sure he'd heard the snap of the door as it opened and shut again, but no answer came. Draping the dish towel over his shoulder, he padded through to the living room. "Stan?" He called. "Kenny?" Silence. He stood facing the door, one eyebrow raised, wiping his damp hands on his shirt. Behind him, something clicked. He felt his whole body tense at the tell-tale sound.

"Hello, Blaze." His heart was drumming its own anthem in his chest. His blood had turned glacial in his veins. Haltingly, he turned. A man was in the apartment, and he had a gun trained on Kyle's throat. Towering above him, the man had grey, cold eyes, and hair streaked with silver. His expression was apathetic, as though this were something he did every day.

"Who are you?" Kyle asked, with more bravery than he felt. At his feet, Odin circled apprehensively.

"Turn around, and walk out the door."

"No, I think I'll stay here. Who are you?" He asked again. The man sighed, as though the question were of great inconvenience to him. With a flick of his wrist, he pointed the gun at Odin instead.

"Turn around, and walk out the door." Kyle glanced fearfully at the puppy. He  _loved_ the little bundle of fluff. Their time together thus far had been short, but Odin had helped him in ways that he couldn't assert.

"Bed, Odin." He said, as gently as he could. Still cowering, the dog obeyed, tail between his legs. Kyle gave him a final, fleeting look, and turned back to the door. He walked, held rigidly upright by his fear. He was walking towards his execution. This was his green mile, at the end of which lay the firing squad. He considered begging for his life, but any man who would threaten to shoot a puppy was unlikely to be wavered by desperate imploring. So he walked. Down the hallway, down the stairs, into the darkness beyond. The man walked a few paces behind him, the gun somewhat concealed under his jacket. Kyle could feel his presence in the paraesthesia of his skin. Every so often, he would be given a command.

"Turn left here," Or "Go the next right." Until they were obscured in the penetralia of South Park's back streets. Kyle wondered if they would hear his screams. He wondered if his friends would come looking for him. He hoped they wouldn't find his body, as he had found Dana's. He hoped they wouldn't mourn him for too long. He hoped they could carry on down their own pathways even as he left his. He hoped.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wrote part of this chapter ages ago. I knew it was a chapter I wanted to lead up to, and I knew exactly which song it connected to. I'd recommend listening to 'Goodnight, Travel Well' before/after/while reading this chapter. It's a song I deeply resonate with.

**Chapter Twelve**

_Stay, don't leave me_

_The stars can wait for your sign_

_Don't signal now_

* * *

He'd known this moment was coming. It had been written in his scars, in every remodelled fracture, in every tired molecule that formed Blaze on one side and Kyle on the other. Mors mihi lucrum. An inevitability. He had feared this moment, but now that it was upon him, he felt oddly tranquil. For him, this was it. Now, he wasn't certain what he'd been so afraid of. The pain, perhaps? That would be fleeting, if he was fortunate, but would ultimately end regardless. There was but one conclusive truth: he was  _not_ going back to Brooklyn. He would die, or he would live. He would not go back to purgatory.

The man moved closer, his Messenger of Cessation, breathing heavily, fists clenched. The first blow, the arch of his moribund, struck Kyle's face. Lights flashed like fireworks at the back of his eyelids, his skull hit the wall behind him with a sickening crack. The pain took his breath away. As the man continued his onslaught, he found his hand grappling with his pocket, searching for the wealth that nestled within. His family. His friends. Dana. He thought of everything, and nothing, until he could think no more.

* * *

The front door was open. Odin was to be found cowering in a corner, whimpering sorrowfully. Stan was suspended where he stood, mouth agape, while Kenny ran between rooms, every jarring motion frantic to its core.

"Where is he?!" He shouted at Stan, grabbing his friend by the shoulders and shaking him.

"I- I don't know-"

"We left him for ten fucking minutes!" Odin started to howl, the shrill sound breaking Stan from his reverie. He stooped to pick him up, holding the quivering pup close to his chest. Kenny was clawing at his hair now, pale and terror-stricken. Stan forced himself to remain as calm as was possible, fighting against the rising tide. He gave Odin what he hoped was a reassuring pat, and placed him on the couch, nestled in one of Kyle's sweaters.

"C'mon. Let's go look for him. He can't have gone far. I'll call Wendy and Butters, ask them to put the word out. You call Craig and Bebe. That way, the whole town will know soon enough."

* * *

In the end, it was Kenny and Stan who found their friend. They heard the sickening thuds and the click of a safety as they careened down an alleyway. The moment Kyle and his attacker came into view, Stan became incensed. He threw himself at the man in a volley of brutality, forcing the gun away just as it fired, pounding his fists on the man's skull. Kenny was screaming, but it sounded distant, the whisper of words that bled into the wind.

* * *

Someone was kneeling beside his broken body. A girl with flames in her hair and flickering golden stars in her eyes. She was speaking to him, every word a protective shield against his ebbing pain.

"Not today, my love." She sounded sad, but the smile on her face was as effervescent as it had been in life. "Not today."

"I don't want to go back." He told her, clinging desperately to her hand. He was crying now, for the first time in years, and Dana's cheeks were wet too.

"I know, but you must. We'll meet again, you and I, but not until you have the spirit of an old man. I'll meet you on the rolling hills of Ireland when your time comes, I swear it. Until then, you just keep chasing those sunsets." She leaned down to kiss him on the forehead, her tears mingling with his own, her smile wavering. Her whole form was wavering, Kyle realised, shimmering as though she'd been caught by sunlight. He closed his eyes, and let the darkness prevail.

* * *

"Stan! STAN! Look at Kyle, he's been fucking shot!" Stan had been captured by the fury, consumed by a burning fire that radiated from his chest and burst through his fists. He hit the man, again and again and  _again_ , until his hands were slick with blood and tears blurred his vision. Arms were trapping him now, and he fought to free himself as unadorned figures tried to drag him away. His fingers still searched for the man, swinging wildly, not caring if contact was made with friend or foe, until he had been pinned to the floor. He was screaming and sobbing, mind still narrowed by the intensity of the moment. Kenny had given up on trying to reach Stan, slumped on his knees beside Kyle. He ran his hands over the motionless body, chaotically trying to find a heartbeat, any signal that suggested life might still remain. A second person dropped to their haunches, reaching out a hand.

"Don't touch him!" Kenny screeched. He'd promised. He'd  _promised_.

"It's okay Kenny, I'm just looking for a pulse." It was Bebe, her golden curls pinned to the top of her head, voice wobbling. She gently felt Kyle's wrist. "He's alive, see where he's breathing? Have you called an ambulance?"

"I have." Nasally tone. Craig. "Kenny, what the fuck happened?" He was pulling his coat off, pressing the fabric against the red that was blooming from Kyle's chest. Kenny was incapable of speech, incapable of telling everyone that this was his own fault. He and Stan, they'd tried to convince Kyle that he was safe, that no one would ever hurt him again, and  _oh_ , how wrong they had been.

"He said they'd do this, he  _said_." He repeated, pulling away from the hands that tried to comfort him. In the distance a siren roared, a crowd was starting to gather. Kyle's name was whispered in the cold night air, a growing murmur, an accelerating movement. Stan was still being held down, but he was beyond anger now; Kenny inconsolable with grief. Paramedics appeared, parting the crowd, kneeling beside Kyle in the snow. They were asking questions,  _so_  many questions, speaking his name, inserting tubes and attaching wires. The blue lights gave the alleyway an odd glow. And still, Kyle said nothing. He was lost to the void.

* * *

Getting Kyle in the ambulance had been a painstaking process. The paramedics had spoken of a broken ulna, gunshot wounds, traumatic brain injuries, their words unintelligible. Now they were at the hospital, and they'd taken Kyle away down the luminous white corridor and straight into surgery. Stan and Kenny sat together, untouched plastic cups of coffee at their feet, almost comatose in their anguish. Every time a doctor or nurse approached they would leap to their feet, only to be passed by. Kenny couldn't stop himself staring at his hands, enamelled in Kyle's blood. Stan's were equally stained, burdened by the ichor of the man he'd beaten into unconsciousness. The paramedics had taken him away too, but his injuries hadn't seemed quite so severe. Two police officers had entered the emergency department a short while after, speaking quietly to the woman at the front desk, but they didn't stop to talk to Stan as Kenny thought they might. Hours passed before someone came to them. A petite woman wearing dark blue scrubs, she had a kindly face with pretty features.

"Are you two Kyle's friends? I'm Felicity. I'm a specialist nurse here." She spoke softly, taking a seat next to them.

"Is he okay?" Stan asked, pale and drawn.

"He's stable right now, but he'll be unconscious for a while yet. We've transferred him to the intensive care unit, so if you want to see him, I'll take you down there."

"Yes," Kenny was back on his feet in an instant. "We want to see him."

"I'm afraid he doesn't look too well," She told them as they waited for the elevator. "The machines might be a bit of a shock, but please do talk to him as you would normally." She hadn't been exaggerating. They had to put on sterile gowns and face masks before she could even take them onto the ward. Kyle was in a side-room, lying immobile in his hospital bed and surrounded by medical equipment. With the exception of the dressing that covered his gunshot wound, his chest was bare; ornamented with black and purple contusions and spotted with blood. A drain protruded from his side, another from his heavily bandaged head. Another tube was feeding Kyle oxygen through his mouth and nose, connected to a hissing ventilator next to the bed. His eyes were shut and swollen. Stan was the first to approach him, shuffling tentatively closer.

"Can I touch him?" He asked, his voice edged with the telltale choke of a person who is almost in tears.

"Of course, sweetie. I'll give you a few minutes of privacy, but I'll be back soon to ask you a few questions." Stan stepped closer. He wanted to take Kyle's hand, but both were encased in plaster: the left only wrapped his thumb to his wrist, but his right arm was plastered above his elbow. He settled for stroking Kyle's forehead instead, scrunching his face up in an attempt to keep the tears from falling. Kenny moved to the other side, placing a hand over Kyle's heart. He wanted to feel the rhythm for himself, be  _sure_  that their friend was still alive.

"Hey, buddy. You've given us a hell of a shock tonight. How you doing?" He asked, reassured by the consistent thump he could feel under his fingers.

"I'm sorry we didn't get to you sooner," Stan added, his cheeks now wet. "We came as fast as we could, I swear." Kenny looked at him with piercing blue eyes.

"He knows that, dude. I'm sure he does." Felicity came back a few minutes later as promised, bringing two small tubs of water with her.

"I'm just going to clean some of the blood off, so Kyle doesn't feel so uncomfortable." She explained. "And I need to ask you a few things. The police will want to talk to you at some point too, but we've asked them to wait until you've spent some time with your friend." She worked as she talked, setting a stack of cotton pads on a tray attached to the bed.

"Can we help?" Stan asked, still tracing his fingers over Kyle's face. She smiled brightly at them both.

"I'd appreciate that. And I bet Kyle would too, wouldn't you honey?" She passed them a cotton pad each, and showed them how to wipe his eyes from the inner corner to the outer. "Just be nice and gentle and .you won't hurt him."

"Will he- how long before he wakes up?" Kenny asked, dabbing at the dried blood on Kyle's cheek. "Is he in a coma?" He was envisioning the soap operas his mom had always enjoyed, where hospital patients would miraculously wake up from being comatose and just go about their daily lives. The reality seemed starkly contrast.

"I'm afraid that it's too soon to tell. His doctor felt it best to put him in a medically induced coma to relieve the pressure on his brain, give it some space and time to recover. I'm not really supposed to give out information to people who aren't relatives- that was one of my questions, actually." She paused for a moment, leaning closer to Kyle as she washed carefully around the bullet wound. "We tried to get in contact with his next-of-kin, but the line had been disconnected. Do either of you have a number for his parents?" Stan and Kenny exchanged a look.

"It's complicated." Stan admitted. "I don't know if he'd  _want_ them to be told, not just yet."

"Oh dear. Does Kyle have a bad relationship with them?"

"No, it's not so much that." Stan sighed, knowing that he'd need to confide in the hospital staff at some point. "Kyle went missing a few years ago because he was falsely accused of a crime, and didn't know that he'd been cleared until Kenny found him. He was trafficked for sex for a pretty long time, so we didn't push it when he said he didn't want to call his parents yet. I think he's ashamed, and he finds people a bit overwhelming, so we just took him back to South Park and looked out for him as best we could." They were all silent for a moment, Felicity trying very hard not to let the shock and horror show in her face.

"That'd explain the sparse medical records, then. We noticed that he saw a doctor a few months ago, and that he was treated for a chest infection, but before that there was a gap in his notes spanning over three years." Kenny nodded, still fixated on Kyle's cheek.

"We kinda had to force him to go. He doesn't really trust people yet." Felicity nodded thoughtfully.

"I understand." She placed a stained pad into a kidney dish, and picked up a clean one. "He's very lucky to have the two of you for support." Kenny flushed pink. Stan felt deeply ashamed.

"No he isn't," He mumbled. "He very nearly died tonight, and we almost didn't get to him in time." He took a deep breath, summoning the courage to ask the question he'd needed the answer to for a while now. "Could he still die?" Felicity paused, looking up at them with doe-brown eyes.

"As I said, he's stable for now. But as with any trauma, and on this ward particularly, that doesn't mean something bad can't happen. We don't know the full extent of his injuries yet, since the doctors were just working to pull him back from the edge." She sighed, her gaze moving to Kyle. "I'm sorry to have to be so blunt, but I think it'd be more cruel if I built your hopes up too much and then have Kyle get worse." Stan was crying again, but Kenny forced himself to stay resolute.

"I know you said you're not supposed to tell us," He began, wiping a trickle of water from Kyle's nose, stained a muted pink. "But is there anything you  _can_ say about how he's doing? Did they get the bullet out?"

"Yes, sweetie. They got the bullet out." Felicity sighed. "Alright. But  _only_ because these are very special circumstances." She took a deep breath, as though she had a lot to say. "Kyle has suffered several concerning injuries. The bullet wound was probably the easiest thing to fix in all honesty. Thankfully, it didn't pierce any major organs."

"Stan pushed the fucker away, so he missed his target." Kenny said grimly. "He was aiming at Ky's head." Felicity flashed Stan a warm smile.

"Sounds like you saved his life." Stan's tears still didn't cease. He didn't feel as though they'd saved Kyle. "He also developed a hemothorax as a result of broken ribs," She continued. "The bone pierced part of his lung, so we had to place a chest tube to drain the blood away. He also has multiple breaks in his arms, as you can see. But the most worrying of all is Kyle's head injury- it's called a traumatic brain injury, or TBI. He suffered a seizure just after the bullet was extracted and the anaesthetic started to ease off, so they had to take him straight back into surgery to place a shunt to reduce the intracranial pressure."

"So he could have brain damage?"

"It's a possibility. But most people don't realise how broad the spectrum of a TBI can be. He might only be left with a slightly lower attention span, or he might need twenty-four hour care. He'll be assessed soon, and then the neurologist can plan from there. Do you both understand everything I've said?"

"Yeah," Stan murmured. "Thanks for talking to us." There was a knock on the door, and another nurse popped her head around.

"There's a couple of police officers waiting outside the ward doors," She told them wearily. "I asked them not to come onto the ward. They need to speak with you two."

"Thanks Gina. Okay boys, you'd best hurry. I'll look after Kyle while you're helping the officers." Kenny stooped to kiss Kyle on the nose, while Stan gave his shoulder a squeeze. They both hated having to leave him, knowing the danger he could still be in, but it made no sense to keep the police waiting.

"We'll have to tell them everything," Kenny sighed as they trooped mournfully away. "We should have done it sooner."

"Ky would have hated us for it."

"Possibly, but if we'd reported it sooner maybe he wouldn't be in a coma right now. Maybe he wouldn't be at death's door right now. Maybe he-"

"Kenny, don't." Stan said sharply, tearing the paper gown off as they reached the end of the ward. "I know that already, you talking that shit just makes it worse."

* * *

They'd been interviewed separately, but thankfully it seemed the police had no intention of charging Stan with assault considering the circumstances. Kenny had sensed that they knew something he didn't; he wasn't sure whether this should make him feel relieved or uneasy. Felicity came to find them afterwards, dressed in her own clothes rather than the hospital scrubs.

"My shift is over, my lovelies." She told them. "I've just been in to check on Kyle, and he's doing absolutely fine. The doctors are running some more tests, so it might be an idea if you came back to see him tomorrow morning." While her tone had been gentle, there didn't seem much room for argument, so the pair made their way back towards the hospital entrance.

"Kenny! Stan!" Bebe rushed towards them, eyes red and cheeks stained with tears. "We've been so worried. Is Kyle okay?"

"Yeah, what's going on?" Asked Craig, an arm cradling a sobbing Tweek to his chest. "Who the hell would shoot Broflovski?" Wendy flew at Stan, almost knocking him over as she flung her arms around him.

"Oh, Stan! I'm  _so_ sorry!" He placed a hand on her back, allowing himself a moment to breathe in the sweet, floral scent of her hair.

"He's alive," Kenny started slowly. "Stable, but unconscious. That's all we can really say at the moment."

"Why didn't you tell us he was back?" Clyde asked.

"It's complicated." Stan said, gently pulling away from Wendy. "We can't really say, I'm sorry. We're heading home now, guys. We'd appreciate it if you could hold off on the inquisition for a little while?" Bebe nodded, her eyes still wide with fear.

"But he's okay?"

"He's alive." Kenny repeated. He couldn't reassure their fears, because they were still very much real. Kyle's life was torn between his broken body and the infinite constellation of stars.


End file.
